


take kindly the counsel of the years

by hectorpriamides



Category: The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: Bit o' Drama, Canon Divergence, Mentions of spousal abuse, Minor Triggers, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, alternative history, bit o' angst, family ties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-01-11 21:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 53,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18432299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hectorpriamides/pseuds/hectorpriamides
Summary: gracefully surrendering the things of youth. - 'Desiderata" by Max EhrmanEgypt falls differently; the gods get to call anywhere but Egypt home, and Apophis is a threat yet.thursday updates





	1. prologue

**prologue. all that withers is not old**

Horus wants to feign surprise when Kemet falls.

Really. He does.

But Ma’at has forewarned him for a century. He felt the sickness boiling inside of him, Is’fet churning heartily. Blame is hard to pin, much as he wants to. Mortals ignored the gods, and the gods fell too hard into the trap of being incapacitated without mortal aid. Horus wants to blame the mortals, too, for mingling blood with foreigners. How Cleopatra, more Hellen than Kemetic, ever thought she could host Isis escapes him.  
Iskander asks for his crook and flail next. Horus grits his teeth and relents. He’s little room to argue here, unless he took the extreme, and settled Ma’at in the way of beasts.

Iskander may have been chief lector, the most powerful magician to date, but he would have been easy to kill.

Ma’at did not like that train of thought.

Horus’ mother—Lady Isis, fourth born of the Demon Days and a queen in every right—took the change well. Weakened from Cleopatra’s mistake yet regal as ever, Mother handles what he can not. She speaks to the priests, and it is she who finds out the plan to rid Kemet of her gods.

And while Horus may hate Iskander, the man lays an offer on the table: Kemet’s gods can be imprisoned, starting with the children of the Demon Days, or they can leave, permanently. Never set foot inside of Kemet or their _Duat_ residency, and Iskander will provide permanent hosts for all friendly gods in the form of statues. Horus scoffs, because what’s Kemet without her gods?

A younger Horus would have told Iskander to die in a hole with his offer. But now, older, responsible for both his family and the rest of the gods, he relents. There’s far more than himself to be concerned about.

He hopes for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**go placidly among the noise and the haste/and remember what peace in silence**

The women do not stop sobbing without a gentle nudge. It is easiest for Horus to collect his queen, First Wife and bearer of princes, off their bedroom floor. Hathor's kohl smears down her cheeks.

"Wife, wife, come on. We must go." He pulls her upright, carefully holding her to not bruise. "Get the boys. You can be strong for them, can't you?"

She wipes her face. Her clear skin marred by the runny kohl. "Of course, my lord—"

He cups her cheek, kissing her other cheek. "You could start calling me husband." Egypt is no longer his to rule. He is no longer their king. "We are stuck together for some time now."

She smiles, or tries, the corners of her lips quivering up. "You...will not leave me in this mess?"

While there isn't time for it, he has always cared for her happiness. His hand to the nape of her neck, beneath her knotted hair, the pads of his fingers to press and swipe at the flower inked there.

"I wouldn't leave you due to something like this. Did I not vow to your lord father, Re, to love and protect you until the end, despite not being your 'one'?" A time past, halfway between courtship and eternity; a grand marriage, adorable wife-to-be with herself on his lap asking for it, for table runners and lamb and their friends to come, so Horus had kissed her between each request. Not being each other's soulmates didn't hurt, not when they loved each other more than soulmates.  
"...you did." She kisses him fully, a bit shakily. "I will get the boys. Where are we to go?" she asks.

He smiles. "Why, to Sumer. Lord Anu and Lord Ashur has offered us to stay for a while." He won't let the family stay. They will move on. But the women do need a few days to rest, to let themselves grieve, return to grace.

Maybe he should too.

* * *

 

Nephthys won't rise from her bed. Isis strokes her hair, her young son Anubis trying to rouse her. Isis can feel her twin's sorrow, heavy on her heart. "Sister, did you expect anything else?" she asks quietly. The fires of Chaos burn around her but never touch, protected by her river.

"N-No. B-But at least a goodbye, or a slur. Something would have been nice." Her bed is soak, and so are her cheeks. "I know that he does not love me; I love him not, I was a marriage of convenience but there's—" her wet eyes glance to Anubis: a young teen with dark hair and pale skin.

"I know, sister. But you still have us. He has us." The Demon Days minus one. "We would never leave our littlest sister behind," she stresses. _We_ , because her and Horus have always been stuck together, brother and sister, son and mother, since the beginning. She would have taken Nephthys everywhere with them, to the depths of the marshes they hid in, to raze temples with her scared priestesses, to the morning after of _that_ moment, Horus sobbing and Isis' poor judgement finishing the morning off. She would have been safest with them despite it; the few times Seth raised his hands against her ( _Treacherous sister, treacherous wife_ ). Isis felt rage boil in her throat and in her place of the _Duat_. They are a family of anger, nothing about them is settled save for love. (She knows nothing of Seth’s body, except that there is, for certain, not a mat of cattails on his hip.)

“Horus will not mind?” she asks, not about herself but rather for Anubis. One day they will tell Anubis the truth: Isis is not his mother and Osiris is not his father. There is meaning behind Horus' scowls when he calls Isis _Mother_ , more than a jealous older brother. Being treated on the same level as his nephew/cousin does nothing for her poor boy.

“He will drag you to the ends of the earth with us.” Nephthys is the river their lives flow around. “Come, sister. Our remaining brother has arranged somewhere for us to go; little Ihy would despair to see your permanent frown even deeper.” Isis wipes Nephthys’s face clean. Perhaps Nephthys could have been happier if the Contendings never happened, if she didn’t have the title of _goddess of lamentation_ she could have smiled, quiet goddess, youngest royal suited best for talks with the dead and children. “No matter what happens to Egypt we will always be together,” Isis promises, “and I will always protect you.”

Hapi, as his name would suggest, is the only son who doesn’t snarl at Hathor. They all are tall boys with their father’s temper. Hapi drops his dark blue arm around her shoulders and exclaims, “When have Ma and Pa ever led us wrong?” How that one go so exuberant and loud is confusing to mother and father alike. (A cry of “Love, peace, and chicken grease!” made both wonder where he could have come from actually.)

“MaandPaare the _reason_ we have to leave,” Imsety sneers. Hathor hears Sekhmet in her head, ‘ _Shut the brats up_ ’. If Hathor didn’t have a forced abhorrence for violence she would. When you’re meant to calm down your temperamental husband you don’t get to have a temper yourself.

Hathor sighs, brown eyes meeting the golden ceiling. “We will let you do whatever you please after we get to Sumer. You’re all old enough to make your own decisions, but your lord father would simply like to know that you’re okay. You may leave after we get there.” She had no say in what happen to Egypt; it _was_ the Demon Day child, but she will stand by her husband and his questionable actions. She has always stood by the throne, first father Re and now-husband Horus.

Qebehsenuef chimes in, “We aren’t mad at you, Mom. You did your best. So how about you close your eyes while we slip away?” He looks the most like their father, which she thinks loosely, and only because he has a hawk head; Imsety a bearded youth, Duamutef the jackal, and Hapi dark blue and round. She tries to remember to a time where they could have been their own gods, or if they have always been Horus' sons.

Duamutef smiles his jackal grin, blinding, sharp teeth. “Mom, we’re leaving one way or another. We aren’t above force, y’know?” Never mind the fact she is stronger than the boys and can channel Sekhmet likes hosts channeled her.

She glances up to Hapi who has lessened his smile. “Tell your lord father himself, and I won’t mention you threatening me. One will certainly make him angrier. Really, boys, I never pegged you as traitors.” The boys look at one another. She disengages from Hapi. “I am going to get Ihy; hopefully the little thing is still asleep. Think it over, boys, and which you would rather get grounded for.” Like any mother, she kisses the boys’ cheeks.

* * *

Horus stares at the ostrich feathers on his mother’s wrist. Two black feathers that span out and bloom on the soft underside of her scented wrist, for the tips to meet on top where wrist marries hand. He should tell her the truth. Father’s remorseful smile, a parting ‘ _I cannot go with you, I am afraid. I am not like the rest of you, simply incapable of the world without host; we have forgotten that I am truly dead_ ’. It is easy to forget; Mother’s radiant smiles when her festivals would roll around and he would take her to visit; weekly dinners and Anubis, wretched dog, always playing into the disbelief. But it will hurt her, he knows, to know the truth. What will hurt less? Him telling it while their little sister cries into her chest, or her realizing when Osiris never shows his blue face again.

After Lord Anu accepts them, with Horus' faux smile and a promise of, “It is not optimal, no, but shouldn’t all women have the chance to grieve?”

After Ihy pesters him with questions for an hour and Hathor pries the young tyke off his lap for a nap (she has touched up her hair and makeup; she at least _looks_ better), he mulls it over. She took the loss of four grandsons quite easily, shrug minimally to not disturb sleeping, possibly passed out sister. But a soulmate is different, he reminds himself, the other half of your soul, however, that works when the soul is in five pieces. (They’ve explained it at some point to him, not that he remembers.) He would rather her be happy first, before he drags her further down. It is them versus the world, and they have to look out for one another, and now wife, and dog, and sister, and son.

But Hathor reminds, let us get our grief out all at once. The wife is usually right, he muses. She is the brains of their couple.

They are all in one room to share: one bed for Isis and Nephthys, one for Horus and his little family, and one for Anubis (he lets the thought run that even they know he is the bastard son).

“Mother,” when the rest sleep and Nephthys wakes, and Mother tries to make her eat, “may I admit to a white lie?” He wants to avoid her pinching fingers and a disappointed sigh when he sits beside her.

“Yes, dear son? How are you? Are you holding up?” Her face is bare, none of them have bothered with kohl.

Horus smiles gently. “I am fine. How is she holding up?” he asks, skirting around the issue. At least Seth is gone, and they are all done pretending the cattails fit with the mass of runes on Seth’s back.

Isis brushes her sleeping twin’s hair back. “Better. She will be at her best when we are. What did you need to talk about, son?” She offers him her free hand to hold. Her hands are small and unfit for menial work.

“It is about Father,” he presses his words and his thumb against the feathers, “he cannot come to meet us, now or ever. Father truly is dead. I am sorry for not telling you the truth.”

She laughs, and he glances at her, both in this innocent speck right now, bare and untouched if only for a moment. “Sweetheart, I know that. I have known that. Do not forget I am the magical one.”

He huffs. “I was just trying to help.” Her eyes glitter, and he’s reminded of a time before the Contendings again. Her lips brush the cusp of his cheek, laughing, laughing laughing, a _sweet boy_. “I wished for you to not be heartbroken, but apparently you already prepared yourself for the fact.”

* * *

 

Ihy knows not much. They are banished from Egypt, he naps to awake in Sumer, naps again only to wake up in a house. Momma is asleep beneath him with him curled up on her chest, Papa to the left of them head tucked against her shoulder. His grandmothers are here too if he looks. None of the brothers. He sits up, sitting on his Momma’s stomach, feet tucked between his parents. “Momma, Momma, wake up,” he tries, parents always receptive to him. But the _Duat_ doesn’t feel well, he doesn’t either, and the dead are griping, so Momma and Papa, _Duat_ linch pins, must be feeling terrible.

Papa stirs before Momma, two different eyes opening to look at Ihy. “Don’t wake her. What’s wrong, brat?”

He playfully kicks his ribs. “What’s going on? Where’s Hapi and Imsety and Dua—”

“On their own. As we are.” He offers for Ihy to roll into him, lifting his arm. “We are not allowed in Egypt anymore, little one. Your brothers left, refusing to be with us anymore. Ungrateful brats,” he says through gritted teeth.

Ihy frowns. “They’re jerks. They broke that horse Momma got me, the wooden one.” Being six years old and not coming up to your brother’s knee never helped his case. He started hiding things in between furniture and in the kitchen. They broke most of his toys. “Did-Did Momma grab my lamb?” he asks. He slept through most of the confusion when they left. What of his was grabbed is a mystery.

Papa rolls his eyes. “Of course she grabbed the damned thing. I’ll get it,” He stands from bed, stretching first. A scar on the right side of his back, and on the left his soulmate mark, climbing from his hip to loop over his shoulder. He doesn’t know what it is besides lines. Ihy is too little to have one, even small like Momma’s flower. Horus isn’t his mother’s soulmate, but he makes her happy. Ihy doesn’t care about anything besides her and the dead’s happiness.

“Hey, Papa,” he tries, as his Papa rummages through a crate, “I’ll never leave you and Momma.”

Papa pulls out the ruddy, old, white stuffed lamb Ihy have had forever. Ihy takes it, holding it to his chest.

“No offense, brat, but you wouldn’t survive on your own.” He climbs back into bed with them. “But the thought is very much appreciated. Tell the rest of the women when they wake up, won’t you?”

Ihy curls between them both, nodding his head of hair. Papa is quiet for a while, as Ihy stares at the ceiling. It sounds like he fell back asleep. Then he’s drawn a little closer, listening to Papa’s apology of he may not be as spoiled as he use to be for a while, and that without Egypt they will be stuck together for some time, does he understand that? They are only gods in name now, no country to worship them, no followers or godlings (not that Ihy cares about godlings). He gets it, as Papa mutters about mercenary work, that they aren’t really gods anymore, just immortals who don’t belong anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once things get finished, this will update at two chapters a week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the random indents

**especially, do not feign affection.**

Hathor waits for her husband to return home. He sends letters and money; the money is larger than the letters. He never writes more than a page with his handwriting, little segments to each of them. Each letter also comes with a crude, attempted drawing of the flower on her neck in the rightmost corner. Gifts accompany the letters, perfumes, toys, clothes, and the occasional servant.

Servant, not slave. Hathor never keeps any of them, all girls, and Horus knows. Isis hires help from the town, a cook, a servant girl, and a governess for Ihy; any girls that Horus sends, she sends away. The hired help do their jobs better without the flinching.

A slave girl would probably be better at catching Ihy. He can't fight, but he's very fast. Kalamtum is old with grown children of her own, so Ihy easily slips away, like now. He runs into the sitting room, scrambling onto her lap.

"Hi Momma."

The governess pants.  
     Ihy grabs for the letter.

"Isn't it your bath time?" Hathor asks.

"What Papa say?" he asks, ignoring her.

         
    Two can play at this game. "You can know after your bath." He has always been smaller than the average six year old, and she picks up the boy easily, handing him over to Kalumtum. "Be good," she says, "your father was always good. But, I will tell you that he's coming home soon, in two months."

Ihy's caramel eyes widen. "Two months? Two months? That's. Like. Tomorrow!"

She snickers. "It is, isn't it?" Mortal time is an odd thing. "So you better bathe everyday so he's not upset."

He nods eagerly, little fists curling excitedly in Kalumtum's dress. The woman's job should be easier now that an eager to please child is anxiously awaiting his father.

* * *

 

Isis considers hiring a girl to go shopping for them. Talking to male vendors almost sends her twin into cardiac arrest. Nephthys hasn't been the same since they left Sumer. She is even more attached to Isis' hip, clinging as they dance through the bazaar.

  
    "Anubis gets off soon," she says, "hurry up, sister."

  
    Nephthys nods, falling in step with her. “W-why couldn’t we go out later?” she asks.

The goddesses make for the small jewelry shop Anubis works at.

  
    “Are you going to carry the food back?”

Her sister quiets. She wouldn’t expect her to anyway. She would rather pass a little more gold to a merchant son than force Nephthys to be uncomfortable. It took her a hundred years to leave her room, and another ten to start leaving the house again. (Isis glamours the family every seventy years so they don’t have to move. One day, when this country eventually falls, they will, refusing to be caught in the snares.) Horus had said after they had all calmed, _You girls will not work. I will take care of you_ . If he hadn’t said it, Nephthys would have been forced to stay home anyway.  
   

Her unhappy state is indicative of the family’s unhappiness.

Nephthys hangs on Isis’ arm, as Anubis falls into the ploy deeper and deeper that his mother is Isis. She at least gets to see him grow into a young man, just as his unstable aunt. Isis would let her tell the truth, Horus would prefer it come quick, protective over his mother.

  
    “Nephthys, do you still like fish?” Her soft hands in a coin sack, young son stacked with boxes of various fruits and the odd pumpkin.

  
    “I’ll eat it, yes.”

Truth be told, she doesn’t eat much to begin with. Isis tries every night, as does her nephew when he’s home. They are too kind to their hysteria prone sister. Isis contributes more, Isis met her proper soulmate, Isis is a powerful witch. Despite her siblings’ insistence, she knows the truth somewhere in her, that she isn’t as instrumental. Focal to the cycle of rebirth and the Contendings, but that’s about it. In the down time she is useless.

  
    “Are you certain?” she asks.

Nephthys nods. The bustle of the bazaar forces her a little closer, level in height with her twin. “Sister, with our dear Horus coming home, perhaps you could lay off on my lack of appetite. You needn’t worry about me with your sweet child home.”

Horus has never come home once, once, in all their years of banishment without some new mark. Not a scar, because immortality and immortal youth take care of anything that has happened.

  
    Anubis adjusts his stack of boxes. “Why should we ignore you for him, auntie?” A soft voice meant for children.

Isis nods, the same soft hands out of the gold and gently pushing her shoulders. Even little Ihy only ever touches her fleetingly.

Her twin confidently leads them through the crowd. “I can annoy you both,” she offers. “And he will pester you just as much if I tell him what you’ve been saying.” After he removes himself from his wife’s side. Horus clings.

  
    “Now, come. When was the last time you got a dress?”

* * *

 

Luck is often missed in the wives department. Hathor, for Horus, is a gift. She's attractive and graceful. To hear others talk poorly about their wives, sleeping with village girls (that's all they are: girls and boys), something always shifts inside his heart. Monogamous to a fault.

  
    She expects faithfulness. He gives it. Being married to a beautiful goddess has spoiled him.

  
    It is morning when he comes home, as Re should be rising in the sky. Except Re sleeps peacefully in the _Duat_ ; him and Tawaret and all the old gods not fit to live are allowed to stay.

It is morning when he comes home, and it is three days earlier than he told the wife he would be home. In part, it was lack of time management. In part, it's to see her early, drowsy smile.

  
    It is morning when he comes home, and one of Isis' servants is starting their day. He exchanges pleasantries, trying to politely decline her offers to draw a bath or get him something to eat. She relents, bowing her head to him and bidding him a good day.

  
    Grand plans are often ruined by young brats, so he checks to make sure Ihy is in his own bed for once. Ihy spends more time on Hathor’s chest than he does. Sure, fine, whatever. He can spend time with his mother, but when four days out of a week Ihy is nestled up to her bosom, it puts plenty of kinks in his plans.

Thankfully, he sleeps in his own bed, stuffed lamb tight in his fists. None of them rise with the sun anymore, but they raised Ihy to rise when disturbed (since all he can do if things got dangerous is run, not fight). His caramel eyes open slowly, blink slowly once, twice, thrice, widening in realization. Horus doesn’t need him making a fuss, bringing one finger to his lips to shush the little child. Ihy pouts, arms held up in expectancy, so he does, quick hug with Ihy burrowing into Horus' shoulder.

  
    “You’re early, Papa,” he mutters.

  
    He smiles, kissing the top of Ihy’s mass of dark hair. “A little, yes. It’s to surprise our darling Hathor.”

  
    Ihy giggles. “I think Momma will like it. She gets moody without you.”

  
    “And I without her.” Hathor still doesn't dance; it is more through her smiles, laughter,  unfaltering love, and unwavering devotion, that his temper sputtered and died like the light of Egypt throughthe years.

  
    The child nods. “Okay. You can go now.” Ihy lets go, patting the sides of his face with his tiny hands. “I’m gonna go back to bed. Be nice to Momma or else.” Like father, like son, he gages. Ihy does ask for a gift for being good. Horus rolls his eyes.

  
    It is morning when he finally gets to crawl into bed with his wife. She sleeps on her side, pillow drawn into her front. He never grows tired of her, of legs that started with the dawn of the world, of a soft chest, pliant body that fits fine against his. A year without her, some bullshit phrase about absence making the heart grow fonder. Not true, not at all; to see his wife sleep peacefully, mouth parted slightly, grows his heart more than anything. How could she not be the one? Whatever lottery picks soulmates has to be wrong to not pair them together.

  
    He carefully pulls the sheets back. The women are taught like the boy: rise at any occasion. A little starved for physical contact (she’s soft, and usually snares herself around him), crawling behind her and draping himself over her. “Wife, my dearest Hathor,” he lets the whine dribble into his voice, dragging her hair away from the nape of her neck, a loose kiss to the flower.

  
    “Horus? What’re you—” she twists. “You’re early,” she says, with her brown eyes glancing out the window. He has a complaint building, when she lays there for a moment, until slim fingers run behind his ear, lathering him with affections.

  
    He smiles. “That I am. I am bad with time, my love.”

  
    She snickers. “No, no, I’m fairly certain you planned this. Just like I had planned to celebrate your return with feasting and kissing and yet no, your own scheming got in the way.” The smile that made him fall in love in the first place, brilliant white teeth, traveling for miles. (Across the throne room, before she is a dancer to keep him calm, batting her eyelashes and smiling royally like women do. The sun is always rising when she smiles.)

  
    “Perhaps I did. But a few days should not truly ruin your plans, brilliant wife. You’ve always something going on up in your mind.” Another kiss to her neck, trailing to her chin. Soft skin that smells like myrrh; his young wife egging him along.

  
    "Perhaps I do." Hathor is nubile and strong, delicate hands that have raised Ihy and a kingdom and him, to her long legs ensnaring his hips once he finally settles on top. "You have been faithful?" she asks. Her hair falls back from her face.

  
    Knotting his fist in her hair, gentle to never harm her, "Always." She rewards him for faithfulness, always, sweet lips, scratching promises into his shoulder.

  
    Hathor almost feels bad for pawning Ihy off on his grandmother. Ihy's tearful eyes, protesting that he wants to spend the day with his Momma and Papa, shoving his face into Isis' shoulder. She wouldn't have handed Ihy over if Isis didn't have experience in rearing little brats. _It's just for a few hours_ , Hathor promises, _then we'll all go out._

  
    "You have spoiled that boy," Horus quips. Hathor tucks her hands in the crook of his elbow. "But I've given you the means to do so, haven't I?"

* * *

 

She updates her lord pharaoh on all that has happened over the year he has been gone. His adored aunt that eats less, craves to cave and be a mother, bastard cousin ( _never_ brother) completely innocent to his true lineage. They’re at a jewelry stand, where Hathor holds a pin up to her hair with a wink, and Horus hands over money to the man who laughs, joking a _Wives, eh?_ A polite return, gold and silver eyes glancing to her, _We’ve an anniversary; how could I not?_ If he wasn’t so protective, she is almost certain he would have added a comment about just how attractive she is.

“Husband, come quick. I forgot something,” as Horus pins her hair back. “Are you listening?” she asks. Anniversary. Right.

“Yes, yes, my love. What would you like now?” Their time apart (and early morning coupling) with his sick aunt has distracted her husband. That’s fine; he cares. The man has never been good at multitasking, as retentive as those Greek half-breeds.

She pats his cheek. “Will you write the magicians for me? I tried, but they refuse to listen to a goddess, much less a woman.”

His smile dies beneath her hand. “And why, in your father’s name, would I do that? They want nothing to do with us, silly woman.” Father Re checking again and again if she was certain if she wanted _Horus_ as her husband, a humiliated temperamental brat. She did, yes, despite his moods and formerly questioned upbringing; he was kind when it mattered, anger never directed towards her, only asking for dances and a presentable queen.

“Dendara. I wish to go to Dendara.” He quiets, and she carries on. “You remember Dendara, Horus. The temple lights, the parties, the wines. How could you forget? They welcomed our marriage first, hosted us in celebration for many nights. It is our anniversary, and I wish to spend it in the time of our youth.” He does not answer right away, but she has a trump card. Men are easy. “I will dance again.”

He writes. She sits on his lap after Ihy goes to bed, to keep his temper and the vulgarities out of his letters. ( _Ma’at is a little girl, old man, you are killing a little girl...I have seen Is’fet, a beast more terrible than you could ever imagine...You may regulate magician marriages all you please, but one day something will slip up. We will have have hosts again. The day we do, I can assure you, Iskander, we will fill their minds with the same propaganda you tell magicians. I hope we are always at odds, old man, and I hope you die bef-_ ) She edits a decent portion after Ihy demands they go to bed, Horus rolling his eyes and collecting the child. All she leaves in is their reason for wishing to go to Dendara once more (honeymoon), and will follow whatever restrictions the Nomes give them, within reason.

* * *

 

Dendara shakes beneath the force of Hathor. It recognizes her, surges beneath the magic of its old mistress. The columns rebuild themselves, splintered cracks returned to their grandiose. Where the bare balls of her feet touch the floor it flushes gold. Servant lights rush her, dim in light but buzzing around her head. Braziers burn, perfume wafts through the temple as it reawakens. 

  
    She is all smiles.

  
    For her, he listens to the magicians. For one week, no more, they are at the temple, isolated from any locals, with magician babysitters ("Oh, no. You can't stay here. This isn't a place for mortals." When they didn't budge, he went the more illicit route). They hand him a second letter from Iskander, in which the old man writes frail words offering them to come back to their beloved temple every year if all goes well.

  
    It's all dependent on Hathor.

  
    The Duat fills his soul in. If he closes his eyes, unfurls the magic he's kept coiled in his chest, to give the Duat a place to anchor, he feels something like his aunt, drowned in sorrow. The Duat is as alive as the rest of them. Except now, it's by itself to balance Is'fet and Ma'at within itself. Dark waters on white shores, demons independent of their masters beating down on sandbars.

  
    Contempt settles in his heart along with the fresh Ma'at. That was their job, to balance Ma'at, protect it and it's embodiment from too much Is'fet. Last he heard, Ma'at stayed with her husband, asleep in whatever city of thinkers and injustice Thoth goes to.

  
    The forces of nature are meant to be harmonious, and moronic magicians let the scales tip to Is'fet's favor.

  
    "Horus," Hathor's sing song to break him out of his thoughts. “You are slow in your old age.” Her hands slide into his, grinning.

Dendara around them, temple restored to its former glory. Led into the temple proper, he adds on, “Sweetheart, last I check, you are older than me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it’s Later i forgot it was thursday

**with all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.**

“The hell are you doing here?”

“Heh, Mom, that’s not very ladylike.” Imsety smiles, brushing his hair back. “May we come in?” The servant girl (Lily) was right to come get her, and she pushes a silenced Ihy off of her calf (Duamutef is grinning down at him, sharp teeth shown off to the little one; seventeen hundred years and Ihy still fears) to send all the servants home. He runs off, scrambling and fumbling up the stairs.

She sizes them up, tilting her chin up to meet their eyes. All golden, like their father in their youth. And like Imsety, they have all forgone their godly appearance, all youths with hair and bronzed skin; no blue skin, no fake beards, no bird beaks. Whatever they have been up to has kept them young, with Hapi having lost his rounded shape.

“Your lord father isn’t home,” she says.

He shrugs. “That’s fine. We’ll wait.”

Hathor won’t bend to these boys. “You are to leave Ihy and your grandaunt alone.” She steps out of the doorframe, gesturing them in. Isis will be down, certainly, when Ihy will certainly curl on his aunt’s lap.

Qebehsenuef offers to kiss her cheeks in polite greeting. She declines. Instead, she leads them to the sitting room, while Hapi attempts to strike up conversations. She hasn’t forgotten how to act in a royal court, treating this as such. _Yes, yes, we moved to England after Europe left it’s dark period. Oh, we just got bored with Babylon,_ so on and so forth. The halls are lined with art and the grand adornments of the time. They are good at adapting, Ihy and his breeches, overcomplicated dresses, Nephthys fine with keeping her eyes to the ground, as the women of the day do.

Qebehsenuef offers her a seat. She declines. “Your lord father will not be back until after dark. Whatever you came to see him for, I suggest you run it by me first.” In their own home, they exist like they use to; Isis pops in wearing a simple white shift and golden rings, and her cheeks flushed. She has grown to adore her mother-in-law, not deterred by the lonesome ostrich feathers on her wrist. Horus, as the head of the household, had received a letter from a disgruntled noble family in the fourteen hundreds, a middle aged son attempting to flirt with Nephthys and not getting the hint for months, until Isis curled her fingers meant for magic into fists. (Horus kept the letter, in their ever changing bedside table, after reading it everyday for a year with chuckle after chuckle. _By gods, if father could see this-_ )

The boys shift. “Grandmother,” Qebehsenuef is the civil one, as Imsety draws his hands into balls on his lap. The jackal doesn’t follow, as his golden eyes focus on something Ihy left lying out, small toy soldiers. It is fun to antagonize a scared boy, hidden in his mother’s skirts for centuries. (She would never tell him no, Ihy is meant to be by her side. First, to the dead, now, wherever the time takes them.)

“Children.” The quiet fury Isis is known for. “You are still alive. How...fortunate. What do we owe these disgraces?”

Hapi grins. “We hadn’t seen Pops in a while. Figured we stop in. We still love Ma.” Hathor doesn’t doubt it. Respect to the mother is important and a given.

Hathor bites her cheek. “Why, if you had gone with us like your lord father suggested, instead of running off to gods’ know where.” They adapt quickly without them. Things are happening quick, and her littlest is a priority, not grown boys with an attitude.

The boys converge and meet. Isis squares her shoulders then rolls them back, relax and pristine. She was and still is the queen-mother. “Boys, tell us what you need, before your lord father comes home. He grows tired with each year.”

If anything, he should be lax. Only three weeks have passed since they returned from Dendara, dances still fresh on her feet, and should be in his mind’s eye. Even if work bores the hell out of him, never suited for the downtime in war. He shows Ihy how to hold sabers, restless with the restriction that _only_ magicians may deal with Is’fet’s demons.

Imsety is their ringleader. “A place to lay low for a while. We...got into some trouble.” Something explodes in the kitchen.

“You have the audacity—” Isis chuckles, “if you wish to be treated like adults, out from your lord father’s roof, then handle your issues like one.” Qebehsenuef meets Hathor, pleading with her. _We aren’t mad at you, Mom. You did your best._

The boys turn to her expectantly. She is the mistress of the house, married to its lord. Isis is correct. Besides, they aren’t true gods anymore. Her husband does not get to protect his kings, son to comfort the dead, so what is the point of being a goddess of motherhood? She has her king to stand beside, one perfect child to rear, what else does she need? “Your grandmother is correct, children. I wish you could stay, but truly, you aren’t beneath our thumb anymore. You have been fine since Egypt fell; you will be fine from now on.” It hurts, to turn her children out. But if she is disrespected, her own sons a threatening force against her, then she has not much to uphold.

* * *

 

“I’m going to tell him,” Nephthys says softly with more force to her voice than Isis has heard in centuries.

Her twin drags her fingers over the feathers, eyes strong and boring into Isis. “You will not stop me?” but she would never hurt Nephthys, nor would she hurt Isis.

It would be a lie for Isis to say she did not grow to care for Anubis. Her own blood comes first, naturally, them against the world. But Anubis was reared under her hand, reared beside his cousin, fighting for affections. She adores the boy, so different from them, so much like his father. She loves him like any mother would, grand and overpowering.

Would knowing the truth hurt him? That Seth, lord of chaos, is truly his father? That Nephthys, lady of sorrow, is his mother? That they have lied to him for thousands of years? That he was dense enough to believe them for that long? (But, perhaps, Nephthys wouldn’t have fallen into her depression following her husband leaving if she had her son to lean on; if Nephthys had someone else to lean on besides her, could she have been stronger?)

She grabs Nephthys’ hand, squeezing carefully. “I will stand beside you, dearest sister. It is you and I.”

Once she told Horus her plan, he was more than willing to take his wife and son out for a night, to give them the house. “I wish you luck, my littlest sister.” He places his lips to the top of her head. “Just do what I would.”

He meant don’t chicken out, grow a backbone, but she has made no promises. She laughed, replying, “Why, I don’t think I could be that rude.” He laughed in return, tousling her hair.

Isis combs out the mess their brother/nephew/son made. “The cook is making lamb,” she adds in the silence. Nephthys hums in acknowledgement. Her twin sighs, setting the hairbrush down on the vanity. “If you cannot follow through, would you like me to do it?”

  
    She would like to step out of her twin’s shadow, if only for a moment. Instead, she smiles and nods, twins watching one another in the mirror. Color has returned to her face, matching her sister, subtle flush to her cheeks that she agrees is much better than the pale tear tracks.

    Anubis, however, is as pale as his father. He comes in, shaggy black hair over his shoulder. Their boys usually remain shirtless at home, drowsy summer heat, Ihy asleep on his father's bare chest as the air dies, Anubis with a scar down from his clavicle spanning down to his hip. "Where the others go?" he asks.

    "Horus took them out," Isis says. "Ihy is a little shaken up after today."

    He cocks his head. They all do it. "Is this something else you aren't telling Horus?"

    "He doesn't need to know," Isis answers. She picks the brush up once more, gently through the knot their brother made. He certainly didn't mean to ruin her hair that much. It was a genuine accident. As Isis attempts to drag the brush through it, Nephthys bends her head back from the force.

    She hunches her shoulders. "I don't think it's coming out. I forgot to brush it yesterday, I don't think it's helping our case..."

    Isis tuts. "You forgot to brush your hair?"

    "Not like I go anywhere. Anubis, dear, could you get dinner brought here?" He nods, a kiss to Isis' cheek. They informally eat in the twins’ room; together forever until the end. And she is weak, fears the night still, fears a husband who isn’t there. Which she knows is stupid; if he was ever so much in the same city as her, Horus would end him.

Anubis sits on the bed, talking about his day. The women still don’t work, but English women have an interest in _exotic jewelry_ , so Anubis does well for himself. He also does well with all of the flirtations, and the nights he spends away from home. Soulmates for gods are complicated things; they could never be born.

Glasses of wine, and servants sent home for the second time that day. Light rain pelts the slanted windows. Isis elbows her side, nodding. Nephthys takes far too long to eat her last piece of fruit (all imported, this country has no sense of taste, and Horus pays extra to a merchant to find fruits). What is the worst that happens? Anubis refuses to accept it, quits talking to her?

“Nephew?” she asks. He looks at her, gentle smile they all give her. “I...do not know how to tell you this. Isis is not your mother. Nor Osiris your father.” Often, her words fail her, geared to avoid conflict. Yet, here her voice is, a time she needs it, and she isn’t even in the safety of the Nile. It is all her. “I gave birth to you, and gave you to Isis. It is painful to admit, but you were...safer with her. Your father Seth—” that is when his eyes widen, “for you to be around him would not be safe.” She goes on, as she retells the tale as old as them. Treacherous wife, treacherous sister. _I couldn’t let you be the bastard son of the chaos lord; the world was against him, it will be against you._ _To be the son of the former king, why, that protected you more than I ever could have_.

He stands from the bed, hands distorted in ugly fists. “I have been lied to? This whole time?” She nods. “I...appreciate the...sentiment,” the hitch to his voice skips her heart, his words carefully selected and minced over. To hurt her is to hurt Isis, to hurt Horus. He would never.

“You may do whatever you please with this information. You don’t have to call me mother or anything like that.” Sheepishly, she glances up at him, a forced smile. “I simply wished you to know the truth.”

* * *

 

Ihy sleeps plenty, held by Horus after dinner. Rain falls as Hathor starts them tos the post. Their money gets spent on plenty of extras, fruits, spices, replacement stuffed lamb for the child, and letters regarding the state of Egypt. Some bedouin, still aware of the old ways, the right ways.

“Do you think she is fine?” he asks. It rains here more in a week then it did their thousand of years in Egypt.

Her eyes roll. “Yes. She is with your mother. Hand over the money.” Instinct has him gently bounce Ihy, keeping him out of the rain; that’s how fevers and disgruntled wives happen. She’ll be upset once he tells her of the upcoming campaign. Leaving the women alone is painful. Customary, but painful.

Hathor slides her arm into his. “Egypt is still under the Turks,” she supplies, “not that the people like it.”

“You opened my mail?”

“By gods, yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

**we want the spring to come/and the winter to pass**

The clouds trudge over the skies. The dead are desperate to talk, spill their secrets to Anubis in an attempt to locate Seth. Father, uncle, something. He has not a damn clue. But the dead tell him all they know, happy to be heard, restless souls dragging him into graveyards, formal and informal.

    He finds Seth, in colonies halfway across the world. Not a part of them, hideous red suit asleep beneath the trees, as separated from them as he is his family. There is not much in the world. How much hell could one man make without ruining Ma’at? He opens his eyes. Neither say anything at first, only the lord of chaos growing half a grin.

“This is a surprise. Did that pharaonic brat send you?”

    “No. I came for my own reasons.” How did he never notice? Looking at him with what he knows makes everything painfully clear. Bonier than the rest, tall Horus, tall Isis, meat on their bones unlike Nephthys and Seth. He does not have the golden eyes of the pharaonic brat and his family.

    Seth’s pale wrist flashes beneath his suit. “Is the dog learning his bite?” He truly is the bastard dog, not that Horus is any less of a piece of shit. 

    He shakes his head. “Rather, the dog learned who sired him.”

Seth cackles.

“So it’s true?”

    “True as sin. You are mine and that whore’s son.”

Soft, empty Nephthys. Whore is an ugly, strong word that doesn’t fit her. She has always been kind. Not quite all there, but kind, smiles over dinners, begging for Isis to stop being so defensive over her. Bastard cousin is just as protective, almost more so then he is towards their ( _his_ ) mother. Her spineless nature is her only downside.

He picks his words carefully. Angering Seth is never a good idea. The wind of colonial islands whip, air sweet like home before. “You knew, I guess?” His repeat adultery speaks words.

Seth cackles. “Years after it happened. You know the damn stories, infertile yada-yada, but there was a _time_ ,” he says, wiggling his finger in the air, “when I could, and it’s not like Nephthys ever said _no_ to any of us. One...romp between Contendings, and the next time I saw her—”

“Was with me.”

Horus was always older by a year or seven. He knew the truth, the royal court would have known the truth, except for the mortals. All of Nephthys’ bruised cheeks and weeks (years) of grief could have been avoided. Is that the importance of soulmates? If she found her matching set of weeds, she would have been safer. Mother or aunt, she is something precious. Imported jewels, visiting him and Osiris in the Hall of Judgement.

Anubis makes fists. “You never loved her?” She’ll sleep better at night, if he ever goes back to tell her.

“She was a fun night. That’s all.” Seth sits up, brushing the sand off himself. “Have you ever _been_ with a woman, kid? Neith, when she isn’t batshit crazy, is fun.”

He definitely didn’t need to know that. In terms of women company, there’s not a lot besides bored English girls. An estranged wife, being married was just what they did, and _someone_ always has to help the women.

Seth chuckles. “Hey, kid? You going home?” Calling it _home_ is a lie.

“Probably not for a while,” he admits. He doesn’t have a mother to return to, not a comprehensive home to turn tail to. Isis loves him almost as much as her own, but he isn’t hers. He’ll insert some bullshit about finding himself without being a death god, alone in the world without dead to judge, to make this better.

“Want to come with me?”

“And where’s with you?”

Seth is a god without much, either, he can assume. “Wherever I want.”

* * *

 

  
    The only good thing about ever having to leave his wife is getting to climb back in bed with her. She is as lovely as day one. The company invites him for drinks, young men (hah!) out to enjoy themselves before returning to their hags of wives. He has met a few, when Hathor drags him out on Sundays (“If it is a day of rest then why must we leave the house?” “Because it’s what people do.”), and while some are too quiet and flinchy for his taste, they are not bad. This century, he takes to bragging about Hathor, making a few more comments than needed about how lovely she is.

    War does change; Horus tries to be consistent, frustrated with magicians, even if his true temper is lost, with an old attempt at vague pharaonic dignity, bred in his bones. Considering he forgot to shave a decent piece of the campaign (read: the whole one), some of it is gone. 

    But there is his wife and queen-mother Hathor. He is a bit willing to forget everything for her. He’ll be home for her, tolerate the world without Egypt. (He wonders, if he finds his soulmate, could he love them as much as Hathor? Could Hathor’s love her like he does?)

    Every night is fresh. He gently closes the door behind him. They’ve all become heavier sleepers. Yet, naturally, spouses are attuned to each other in the thin veil of magic around their home. The magic is about as thin as her nightgown, never settling for women’s increasing prudishness. He is a simple man, stripping and leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor for the servants come whenever. He slides beneath the sheets, shoving his face into her shoulder, sighing softly, dragging his hands up her sides, beneath her dress. He’s a simple man, Hathor’s arms wrapping around him loosely.

“Not tonight,” she mutters quietly, “maybe if you ever came home on time…” Her ribs beneath his fingers, one two three four, drumming the pads against her beating blood.

    “Wife, look.” He kisses her shoulder. Before he cuts it, rights the one part of him he's kept consistent.

    She grumbles, shifting beneath his weight. "You're so needy," she says, snaring her arms around him, pressing him closer. She's yet to open her eyes, as her dress piles around her waist. He'll buy her something even softer. But now, he needs her to look, and he scrapes his teeth across her neck, close to the flower.

    “Horus,” she sighs, dragging her hand first to the back of his neck. “You’re spoiled,” she adds, shifting to kiss him.

He knows. But she’s close, and he’s spoiled, shoving himself closer with a bit of force. He agitates the fresh wound on his side, grazed at the ribs, but his body, rather his magic, quickly goes to fix it. It sutures him.

Hathor gets to his choppy hair, and stops. Her eyes crack open, once twice thrice blink, shifting again. Her deft fingers yank at it. “Yes, dear wife?”

“You’re...they got you to…” Hathor laughs, the sun slowly rises. “It is the pre-dynasties all over again, my lord pharaoh. Isis will throw a fit.”

He grins, another kiss to her throat. “I know she will. I’m shaving it, come the morning.” He could fall asleep like this, tucked against his warm wife. He almost does, hidden against her against the rest of the world. War is outside, they are in, away for a moment. The soft itch of her hand, the warmth of their marriage.

Hathor combs through it, smiling, and he tries to be considerate, not falling asleep on her with his full weight. “My lord pharaoh,” she mutters. “Will you do something for me? Will you go apologize to your little son? He has been upset ever since you left,” she says.

Horus presses his hand flat against her ribs. “Has he been? The poor little thing,” he mocks.

“Certainly, _the poor little thing_ . Poor _you_ , too. Until you apologize you’re sleeping on your own side of the bed.”

* * *

 

Sunday comes and Nephthys stays home. Isis shakes her awake for church, what the people of the day do, but she shook her off and curled deeper beneath the covers. Isis left her to be. Some days aren’t worth it, pretending to fit in. It has been forever and a year since she’s submerged herself in the river.

She also doesn’t want to go through the socialization that Hathor and Isis eases through. Religion doesn’t hold the same meaning, and being a goddess spoils it all.

Church bells ring. The servants should all be gone, and the house bare. She slips out of bed, grabbing for the robe over the foot of it. The morning is chilly, continually overcast skies streaming through the panes of the window. She hasn’t adjusted to the weather here, and she misses the warmth of the sun.

Nephthys goes downstairs, the darken living room lighting with candles, pinching the tips of wax candles. She still has a little magic for simple things.

Her nephews—really, just Horus—are asleep on the couch. Ihy hides against his father’s side, condensing himself into a ball. _Rebonding_ with Horus. (Ihy cried when Horus left, and cried when he came home. He was six when they left, and he is six now. Yet, truly, he isn’t just a child, as old as the rest of them.)

Horus opens his eyes, glancing over his shoulder. “Hello, dear aunt. You stayed home as well?” He shifts over, “Would you like to sit?”

“Yes, I did.” She does sit, resting her hand on his side. He is as strong now as he was during the Contendings. She bothers to heal his side a little more, speeding up the process. “I did not feel like trying.”

He chuckles.

 _He would drag you to the end of the world with us_. She would go willingly. She’s nowhere else to go. Who else would take her? Attached to her twin’s hip, too meek to ever properly leave Horus’ strong shadow.

Before Horus was married, asking how _to_ court women, a wink and a laugh towards Re’s radiant daughter. He dreamed big, for once Isis' wishes were ignored by _her_ radiant child. _Yes, Mother, I do like her, very much._ _You would help me once more, won’t you? Unless you’re going to deny your lord pharaoh the right to court a queen?_ The end of one of their Contendings, the last set of fresh wounds on all of them, brother-turned-nephew not accustomed to his new eye yet. His head bowed to hers, apologizing that it was the last time. At the time, Nephthys couldn’t see the bitter truth, couldn’t understand why Horus would offer Seth harems and to annul their...relationship.

“I can imagine. Ihy was meant to go, yet he wished for me.” They’d rather be outside, the humidity draping over them like blankets. “You’ve been well, dear aunt?”

Nephthys tucks her hands into her lap, tucking her feet up as well, slim to fit beside Horus. “I guess. I...do not think about home as much, nor Anubis. I’m not smart enough to move on, even if I pretend. Yet they’ll always be parts of me, nephew.”

He hums. “You are not stupid, Nephthys. You’re kind. The stupidest thing you’ve ever done was listening to Seth. But we all did at one point.” He pauses, she leans into his warmth. “Would you be happier if Anubis came back?”

“I don’t know. I will be okay regardless. I have you and Isis.”

“That you do.”

“If Seth ever returned, you would handle it, correct?” A foolish question, she knows. He would handle it if she didn’t ask. But the day will come when they’ll get to fix Ma’at, and Seth is one of them in name, by Mother Nut and Father Geb. Pillars of Ma’at, with disregarded Lord Re, as the Snake slithers beneath their order to one day rise and swallow it all.

He snorts, undignified and forgetful for a second that he wasn’t the head of their pantheon for quite some time. “By gods, I would be more concerned about Mother handling it. Fragile as an egg, you two, but it’s obviously not from Father that I got my temper from.”

His dead temper. Their world is dead, not much to rage at. “Good point.” She wonders if they’d import some fish for her. “You two may bite all you want, and I will heal you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s still thursday in my mind


	6. Chapter 6

**though my mother was already two years dead/dad kept her slippers warming by the gas**

“This isn’t a good idea,” Grandmother states while the little family gathers around Papa at the head of the table. Their golden eyes read the letter, too engrossed to scold Ihy for sitting on the flat top of the table. “Why now?” she asks, “After all these years?”   

Iskander, _still alive!_ , wrote Papa, offering for him to speak to the Chief Lector as, yet again, the representative for them all. _Duat_ linchpins to balance it all out.

“They’re realizing their mistakes,” Momma offers. “Not that they’ll give Egypt back to us.” The nome managed magician marriages, meticulous in making sure hosts for his parents and grandparents never come to be. He’s okay with just statues, but his parents are used to mortals; it’s how it’s meant to be, god and host against the forces of Is’fet.

“ _Realized their mistakes?_ ” Papa glances at Momma. “They wouldn’t realize it the day the snake swallows the sun. Wanting our opinion doesn’t mean anything.”

He nurses his glass of wine, offering Ihy a smile. He gets along fine with Papa when he’s home, when his sheer absence doesn’t upset Momma. And he doesn’t have to go to those churches anymore with the girls; sleeping in until lunch as the war is temporarily over.

Grandaunt Nephthys taps his shoulder. “You are not going to go, are you?”

Papa shrugs. “I won’t say _no._ He’s even gene _rous_ enough to allow me to bring one of you.”

Momma and Papa with their yearly trip to Dendara, thousand year old permits to avoid magician backlash. They come back all smiles, renewed by their original home’s light.

“To not be rude, my love, but you’ve never been the smartest. Why would you waltz into the First Nome?” Momma asks.

Ihy scoots across the table, feet dangling off the edge.

“To not be rude, my love,” Papa echoes, “I am not afraid of death. If Iskander wishes to discuss the state of Ma’at, I will not say no. I will go.” He leans back into his chair, refolding the letter and tucking it beneath Ihy’s thigh. This is a scene he doesn’t belong in, where the technical adults make decisions and Ihy remains a passive bystander.

Grandmother frowns. “Exercise some caution. You are our old pharaoh; imagine what would happen to us if you disappeared for a few years in death?”

He can almost feel the burn of the letter beneath his leg. Iskander wishes to hear from them, forgotten old gods not fit for Egypt anymore. Momma and Papa will go, per tradition, and he’ll be stuck home with his grandaunt and mother.

“...Papa?”

The frozen air broken, Grandmother smoothing a loose piece of Grandaunt’s hair.

“Yes, little son?”

He kicks his knee. “Can I go?”

Momma vehemently shakes her head. He knows he’s her little boy, precious and held to heart, both at night and day. Slim fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp in the bath when she’s frustrated with the servant girls and their inability to get him. In bed, the storms of snow and their unholiness, the whipping howling winds against the windows.

His grandmother chuckles. “Your aunt and I _are_ busy; you couldn’t leave the child home alone.”

“We can’t take our son into that...environment. I’ll stay home with Ihy.”

“And send our lord pharaoh alone?”

“Send Ihy with him and leave me alone?”

“You could come with us.”

“ _Girls—_ ” Papa grabs for Momma, kiss to the top of her head to quiet her. “If Ihy wishes to go, I will take him. Do you truly think I would let the boy be harmed?” He waves his sisters away, explaining into Momma’s hair the safety Ihy will have. _You are silly, old woman. He is as dear to me as he is to you._ _In my care, with how strong I am? The safest place he could be is with me._

He inches his way onto Papa’s lap, beneath his Momma’s chin. “Can I go? Please? I wanna be useful.”

Papa’s mismatched eyes glancing down at him, a quiet, _Who said you could sit?_

His mother sighs. “You’re useful here, my sweet son.” She snaps her head to Papa, a hint of Sekhmet in her words. “Horus, if _anything_ happens to him, I will kill you.”

* * *

 

Egypt cracks and begs for Horus and Ihy when they step foot in the crabgrass littered through the shores of the Nile. Twice in one year, for the sun to beat down upon his head, knowing that Egypt’s sons have returned. Dry air, clipping winds, the grit of sand in his teeth. It’s worth the wet clothes, the Nile rejecting him, quiet chattering of crocodiles snapping their jaws. Far from Dendara, but nowhere near Cairo; closing his eyes, it is somewhere near Amarna.

    Little Ihy screams. He glances down, but Ihy is fine. The little thing is _happy_ . He’s falling to his knees, the tip of his small sword in the sand. His hands run through it, giggling. “ _Papa,_ ” golden eyes focused between him and the sand, indecisive, flicking between the ground and him. “Papa, we’re home.”

Horus chuckles, Ihy’s happiness opening his soul. He leaves Ihy to appreciate life for a moment. There's a list of mundane things related to Ihy, Hathor's finger jabbed in his face, _Make him eat, make him sleep, don't let him get sick—_

Beside his son, their backs on the ground, the sun reaches its zenith; he folds up Ihy's permit to a little square, tucking it against the boy's heart. Children are frail, the ribs his knuckles brush capable of snapping like twigs. Their divine bodies are made of precious metals, but weak, brittle ones; the gold meant to build their skeleton will break as easily as paper. These mortal constructs are stronger.

    Horus reiterates the importance of not losing that paper. Ihy nods, beating his small fist into his open hand. “Oh, oh! Let me guess,” shining white teeth in a beaming smile, “we’re waiting for the bedouins? We’re kind of sort of far away.”

    “That we are.” Hathor’s and his Dendara trip three months ago, the quietness of the night bugs and smuggled gifts passed the magicians.

    Ihy lazes like a cat, basking in the sun’s dry heat, as they wait.

The bedouins accept them, well aware of who Horus is. The caravan of camels and wagons alive like a mini city. “Lord pharaoh, you have come early. And without the lady wife.” He cannot remember his name.

    “I could not; we’re here on business not pleasure, I’m afraid. You can take my son and I to the First Nome, can you not?” They don’t ask questions, their relationship well understood, the old chief leading them and promising with his frail old voice, _It will be three days at most._

    The days are uneventful. Ihy is as unskilled with a sword as he was years ago; unbalanced on the flat of his foot, he doubts his ability to even outrun a magician. He drills the importance of not being caught into Ihy's head, that if they somehow get separated Ihy returns to the bedouins and to Hathor. The sword is just for show.

    "Oh, Papa, here's a smart idea: we don't get separated."

    "In an ideal world, yes."

Ihy tucked beneath his chin for two nights, certainly not allowed out of sight when Is'fet is at his strongest.

    He is polite, or rather tries to, when they leave the bedouins, thanking them for _their continued support._ Ihy slides his hand into his; Horus resists rolling his eyes, squeezing the child’s hand regardless.

    He’d carry the child if he could, but there are more pressing concerns than an upset Ihy. Ihy willingly came, he can’t baby him too much. That’s for the women to do.

    Into the First Nome, and Ihy’s shaking hand to drag the permit out of his coat. Magicians glare at Ihy, and he glares at them, hyperaware of how tall magicians are compared to their old counterparts. His eyes level with them. A straight audience with Iskander would be too much to ask, as if these little magicians know fully what happened.

    The Hall of Ages can’t lie, at least: the beginning emptiness, then Re, Shu, Nut and Geb, to the Demon Day children, Narmer to Ramses to Ptolemy. History he’s less familiar, history he wasn’t a part of, with the Ottomans and Islamic empires, only about in letters. It’s still _his_ Egypt, same land, magic in it’s stones and the Nile to feed her people, floods to bring silt; plenty of things are consistent.

    Iskander is alive and decrepit in his chair. His eyes are white and milky, glazed over with age. A sleeping baby, younger than even Ihy, in the chair with him, some magician’s brat with bronzed skin. Perhaps a lack of tact and social interaction is the reason he says, “Iskander! I’m surprised you can still get it up at this point!”

Ihy slaps his thigh.

    Oh well.

    Tension coils in the air, but Horus knows how to work with tension. Downtime never works, nor first impressions. He’ll disappoint Hathor, naturally, but she isn’t here. Iskander hands off the child to a magician and dismisses them all. They try to take Horus' sword, which will certainly not happen, yet Iskander lets him keep it.

    “The position of Chief Lector does not permit for children, if you remember.” Families distract too much for one with _such an important job_ as Chief Lector. “I thank you for your...ability to come visit us. We have an issue with the stability of Ma’at, and who better to ask then you?”

    “It is your fault, after all. It would all be fine if Egypt still had her gods.” He’s taller then Iskander, at least.

    Iskander sighs. “That is besides the point. Regardless of who holds fault, Ma’at is still broken. Despite better judgement, gods are more...experienced in these regards.” Horus wonders if they still keep Sekhmet confined to only be used as a weapon.

    “Will you listen to us?”

    “To a degree.”


	7. Chapter 7

**glance to the side/where water marries earth/but never head on**

“Papa?” Ihy’s mouth is full of sand, face down on the ground. Despite the situation, he loves the grains of sand on his cheek. Closer to home than the forest they’re currently stuck in.

“Yeah, kid?” The distinct _plop_ of spit hitting the mat of leaves, a loud crack of his bones.

“Where’re we?” He sits back, messing up his own hair. Stars twinkle through the spiraling branches of the trees, dark blue sky that spans across the world. The air smells distinctly not Egypt, cold and crisp.

Papa brushes sand off of his shoulders. He follows his movement, the stain of dirt and grass on his cat. Momma won’t be happy. “No idea, kid. But I’ll get us home,” he assures. “Uh, but let’s not tell the girls about this.”

Ihy nods. Papa’s unrestrained tongue got them into this mess; he’s likely to be met by pinched ears and heavy scolding if they know. He brings his hand to his hilt of his sword, unsnapping sheath and all, to hand it over to his lord father. Horus, both as his father and king, will always be greater.

He’s content beneath the sky, Papa continuing to fuss over him while he waits to find out where they are. The chill of the night, and he squares closer to his father, hidden away from the stars as well. Things go bump in the night, the distinct sounds of creatures not human, guttural, with the buzzing of insects around them that never touch. _Spoiled_ , he knows, Papa knows, yet he’s offered to be carried, and he accepts.

“I think we’re in luck, little one.” A kiss to his nose, he recoils; affection not from his mother always feels a little off. “I’m fairly certain we’re still in Europe.”

“How do we get home, though?” To Grandaunt Nephthys and Grandmother Isis, and of course sweet mother Hathor. He’ll cling to her for a few weeks, ignoring Papa’s likely complaints for **_alone_ ** _time with his wife._

Papa rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Why don’t we get out of the woods first? I couldn’t have you crying because you’re _afraid_ ,” he teases. He holds Ihy easily, his free hand lit with subdued magic. The trees are dark and splattered with moss.

“I’m not _afraid,_ ” Ihy protests, voice cracking, “I just don’t wanna get eaten. Yah, see, Duamutef use to tell me that the palace cats would eat me. Mhm, mhm,” he carries on, stories of various things interested in eating little gods. Nights where he could not sleep with his parents, hopefully secluded in his own room with far too lax guards. In reality, it was his brothers flicking his face and pestering him until the sun rose, the cats and crocodiles and cicadas to eat him. Why did they hate him so much? Because he isn’t Horus' blood child, despite their shared golden eyes.

Ihy tucks himself to his shoulder, eyes drooping. “Hey Papa?” Scaling fallen trees, heading towards the scent of a town. “When will the sun come up?”       

He wonders if this is secretly a good thing. If they had left from Egypt, it would have taken them a longer time to get home. Dropped randomly in Europe drags them closer to their awkward island home. “Two and a half hours,” he answers, secure in his sense of time.

"That's not long," he answers. He rubs his cheek over the fine material of the coat. "Will we be home by dinner?"

    "Don't be stupid, kid. Go to sleep or something."

    That's exactly what he wanted to hear. "Meanie."

* * *

  
    Horus—after prying Ihy off of him and dropping him into a less than ideal tavern bed, draping him with his coat (a charming child, slithering down to hide beneath it)—considers the prospect of death. A week from home. A week of foreign beds and his cracked arm, no decent mortal healers. Not a matter of pain, but rather a matter of his mortal body protesting.

    The splintering of his arm isn't a problem he wants to worry about. Ihy'll need to be fed, they need someway to get home (horse?) and some elaborate lie to placate Hathor. Repeatedly calling Iskander a cuck until he snapped got them into this mess.

    Rifling through the room, searching for something to write with. Demotic, as he hasn't quite learned to write English, scribbled on the paper. ' _We will keep your statues intact_ ,' Iskander promised, ' _and I will offer you the option to do simple magic. No interference with the Duat._

    ' _Yet_ ,' Ihy squeezed his hand, hidden behind his leg, 't _he rule of gods not being allowed to intervene with demons will be expanded. You may not hunt, but if they happen across your path..._ ' he sighed. ' _Our numbers are too low to handle Is'fet across the world._ '

    Horus rolled his eyes. ' _Is your breeding program not working out as well as you hoped? Are you so afraid of us having hosts you'd hurt your own numbers_ ?' His white teeth in a less than pure smile. ' _I do not need a host to kill you, Iskander_.' The flat of his blade against the old geezer's neck, dipping dangerously close to his weak pulse.

    To his credit, the old man doesn't cower. ' _I know. I imagine it would make you all happy to watch me die_ ,' a swallow, feeble Adam's apple bobbing against the sword, ' _to alleviate the grief your family knows so well._ '

    ' _Iskander, this isn't about grief._ ' The sword falls from his neck, Ihy reminding _Momma wouldn't like this_ . ' _But Ma'at is a concern before my personal feelings. I cannot kill you if the world collapses on itself_.'

He omits that. He scribbles down the lifted law of ignoring demons, now allowed to do simple magics. Is combat magic simple? To _him._ Not that he needs his avatar to fight little demons. Ihy could be trained on them, weak six year old free of fighting experience.

He grins, pinching the tip of a candle. Mother likes her magic, small glowing balls of it around the palace, around their home. Clear memories of her on his arm, after one instance of him sitting back on the throne, leading an old, exhausted Mother to her previous quarters. Sentient lights buzzing around her, long fingers teasing them.

Horus folds the letter into a small square. Their trip of a week could be cut in half. The stars and sun scrawled over the sky, four straight days on a horse, if littlest Ihy remembers godhood, forgoing sleep and eating for those days, turning it into a walk in the park (it doesn’t change the personal pain of having his child without a meal, even if the child is a god).


	8. Chapter 8

**everything is dying/we hear these rumors of the planet’s end/none of us will be around to watch.**

Horus came home three days later. He handed Ihy over to his mother, after politely having said _hello_ to Isis and Nephthys (affectionate kiss to Isis' cheek, head bowed to Nephthys with lingering affections), bathed, and laid down to sleep for a majority of the twentieth century.

“...you think he’s okay?” Nephthys asks. Isis pokes at her wrist absentmindedly, golden eyes unfocused from the strain of raising the dead. She needs the sleep, too. Nephthys isn’t the same degree of witch as Isis, and has never burned herself out. _Burning out_ as gods was nigh impossible, anchored to their bloodline of magic. Now? Probably incredibly easy. Recovery even longer. “Sister?”

Her shoulders shrug slowly. “Don’t know. One of us was bound to break. If he was sick he’d be whining,” she says. How far can these mortal bodies go? God Horus could sleep undisturbed for eighty years, not that _he_ ever did. She would, between Contendings where she didn’t contribute much. Yet their sun, technical living eldest, technical second youngest, to crash? In peaceful times?

 _...bound to break_. “He wouldn’t pass on an opportunity to be doted on,” she smiles. At the end of four thousand years, he’s still their spoiled king. Nudging Isis, she says, “I’m going out,” who is exhausted enough for this to work.

She eyes her warily. “Be home by dark.”

Unguarded. Alone. “Yes, of course.”

“Take your amulets.” Isis brushes her bangs back, tucking it into her ponytail. “Where are you going?”

Her socks are thin in her shoes. Her pinky toe rests close to the sides. Meant to run, not fight. “Just out.” Her ex husband in the city, son in tow. With Horus asleep, there’s nothing keeping her from seeing him. Besides fear. She can live with fear. Has lived with fear. What happens to them in death, in this state? It’s best if she is the one who finds out. The rest matter all the time. “Maybe go on a jog.” Isis can read her like a book typically. If she notices anything, she says nothing. If she knew her intentions, Nephthys would be put on lockdown.

But she doesn’t. Her planning witch of a sister is out of the loop.

    Against her hips burns her mark. Cleopatra’s Needle hums beneath her hands, sun reaching his low zenith and the obelisk heightening her powers. She'd prefer water. Water is her home, protection in the face of fire. It’s been awhile since she swam too, since the rest of her family and Horus' brood being genuinely, generally against the water.

    Maybe showing up on her ex-husband’s doorstep soaking wet isn’t a wise idea.

    Her soul finds him. Finds _them,_ husband and son on the outskirts of the city limits.

    The years have been kind to him. Taller by a smidge, with his hair dark and ruffled, complimented all by a gaudy red suit, too loose around the waist. She checks beneath glamours, the head of the Seth animal smoothly fused into his shoulders, staff ready at his side. She’s severely underdressed, knee length skirt, low collar. Their annulled marriage saves her from backlash _(The baby,_ her mind singsongs).

    And, well, there is Anubis. Pale skin, dark bags. His eyes are inset deep, widening when they notice her. ‘ _Leave_ ’ he mouths. Where Seth goes, storms follow, England’s perpetually black skies dampening.

Her head shakes. ‘ _I’m here to see him, nephew_.’ He looks around her, searching for some sign of guards. Nephthys can’t mention that Horus is sleeping the century away, or Isis is burnt out like a candle. They’d be easy to kill. Her voice steels itself, as she speaks slowly to insure no stutter, “Seth.”

He says, without turning, “I prefer _Set_ now, actually.”

“Set? Like in a game?” That rises his attention, unnatural eyes to glare at her in exasperation. “...not the point.” He looks her over, drinking in the sight of her. The inch of height? Uncomfortable. He could easily wrap his hands around her neck. “I am still Nephthys.”

    “No honor guard? Are you stupid?” With one easy step he closes the distance between them. “I’d love to see the son of the bitch.” Thunder cracks.

    Seth’s eyes are devoid of malice, thankfully.

“Possibly. I came alone so we could...talk. But the two of them are nearby if anything goes wrong…” If she screams loud enough, maybe. Caught up in his gaze, head craned a small degree. The good years of their marriage, as few and far between as they were, her face free of bruises, her husband faithfully serving Re. The bad times leave more memories.

    “About what, _wife_?” he hisses.

 _Divorced, divorced, divorced._ Instinctively, she flinches, head cocked higher up, his hand on her chin.

    Peace in the face of adversity. She smiles. “How-how have you been?” Accursed stuttering returning.

    Silence, Anubis glancing at her; the crazy, unstable aunt.

“How have I been? Ra is dead, the Contendings are dead, and that fucking snake is lurking. I’ve been _great_ ,” Seth spits.

Purposeless. She is meant for grieving, Horus for protecting, Isis to overbear, and for Osiris to be, well, dead. Seth is for war, for his spurts of Chaos in their order. He isn’t useless like her. What is the point of grieving? Least he trained the child Horus and the other...assorted things that happened.

    “The snake? He can’t. Re handled him.”

He snorts. “Thousand of years ago. How could you forgot that everything we do repeats itself? He promises that this is the last time. The world will plummet into darkness.”

First her stomach drops. Cold world, demons crawling from the cracks of Ma’at in Egypt. Picturing it is easy; their ultimate end. “No. How do you know,” besides the obvious? The old lector likely doesn’t know; mortals never know until too late.

Lightning flickers over the sky; she flinches.

“He told me,” Seth admits quietly, hand tenderly slipping down her chin to her neck. “The old bastard got in my head, trying to convert me to his side. Blah blah _you’re the strongest out of your family, the most handsome, the greatest join my side,_ yada yada.”

“I do not believe he said _all_ those things.”

“Practically did. Told him _no_ . If anyone’s killing the rest of you, it’s going to be me.” Like a fruiting flower, the skin of her neck blossoms purple, scrunched under Seth’s strong fingers. “I will be saving you for last, treacherous wife. First Osiris, then the momma’s boy. Bitch of a sister, bitch of a wife. Somehow, the weakest of us all has hurt me the most.” She doesn’t take her eyes off of him, fisting the short edge of her skirt. _Somehow_ she will die, at the bottom of the pecking order. Apophis rising protects her for a brief respite.

With their most capable fighter known as _Horus_ conked out, and her sister down as well, she hopes it isn’t too soon. The magicians will need them. “When? Did the lord say when?”

 _The lord._ “In less than one hundred years. That’s his plan. Swallow Ra before magicians rally unified beneath our banner. Ra can’t return without godlings, the snake can’t return without Ra; it’s the _cycle,_ Nephthys.” He grins ferally, eyes blazing with the fires of Is’fet. “Run home. I hate it, but if I am to kill you, then we must agree to end the snake.”

Saving her murderer is new. It’s comforting. “Yes, Seth.”

“ _Set_.”

“Set.” She nods the best she can. Drops of rain hit her forehead, sheets of water to drench the countryside. If she could let her mind wander, she’d embrace death even more. Weak enough to seek him out for no reason other than she wanted to, perhaps she deserves the comforts of death. Osiris would welcome her, and unabashedly she could continue to lament, before the mess of Is’fet uncreates them all. “I’ll pass the message on.”


	9. Chapter 9

**because you want to die for love/you always have**

        The dining room table is the same. Horus fumbles his way to the kitchen quite ungracefully, years of sleep weighing his mind down. He’s vaguely conscious of all the changes that happened. He flicks the lights on, listening to the humming of appliances.

    Spread out on the table are pamphlets describing apartments for sale in France. The women wish to move. Whatever. As long as they’re happy. To the end of the world and all that. He could care less as long as he has Hathor and the little son and his sisters. Everything stays the same, it’ll all be fine.

    He rifles through the cabinets. It’s been how long since he ate? A while. It’s the perk of his immortality, not _dying_ of starvation. The top of the shelves, butter cookies kept out of his son’s reach. He nibbles on them. He could be annoying enough to wake Isis up and make her cook for him. Spoiled son.

    His alone time is cut short. That’s fine, slim arms of his wife wrapping about his hips. Never too much time apart, he muses. The analog numbers on the stove read 5:14AM, the dark skies outside hiding the sun, Hathor’s face pressed against his back. “You’re up,” she says, voice laced with affection, “my dear husband. Are you here to stay?” A new perfume, light as air and difficult to smell.

“I hope.” He wipes crumbs off his face, sleep out of his silver eye. She deserves a put together husband. There was too much courting, flirting, and nasty glares from her innumerous sisters to not last. Horus turns in his wife’s embrace, box of cookies clutched in his hands, throat dry from sleep and, upon seeing his wife, in need of a drink to relieve his thirst. Soft tendrils of hair that fall down her face, her clear, makeup free skin showered by thousands of sunrises. Her shoulders barely hidden by the straps of her shirt, none of her thighs left to the imagination (not that _he_ needs it). Her legs are long enough to be so easily hiked over his shoulders. “Do not...do not let me do that again.”

She smiles. “Focus, sweetheart. Don't worry; I wouldn't. It was miserable without our darling king.” Her head beneath his chin, breathing him in. His stomach burns with yearning. “You slept about hundred years, Horus. You have missed so much. The entire twentieth century.” The crunch of another cookie. The pads of her fingers drawing designs over his back, on his scar. “Do that again, and I will kill you.”

He knows it. She doesn’t lie to him, faithful wife and queen always at her king’s side. “Yes, my dear.” Hopefully Mother is well, and dear Nephthys (who blurs the line between aunt and sister far too well). It isn’t like him to be down so long. “You will fill me in, won’t you?” Her head bobs.

“Get your son; I will get the sisters.”

“Why must I get Ihy?” Whiny brat, no doubt keeping Hathor company all this time. Wonderful child with all his mother’s joy, is his mother’s joy, bright eyes and smiles and, well, in possession of Horus' heart and affection like Hathor. “It is so awkward when he cries.”

He was going to do it anyway, but then Hathor pulls out the sweet kissing on his neck. And he’s a man, easily swayed by anything his wife doles out. “If I am getting Ihy, then may you cook me a meal?”

Another nod, “Are your cookies not enough?” He rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, dear. Anything for you.”

Mother and Nephthys crowd him. Mother prods at him, gripping his chin and staring him down. A visual check, forcing his mouth open, some type of fury in her eyes. Nephthys? Much less hands on, asking _How are you,_ _Welcome back I hope,_ fragile smile, nodding as he talks around Mother’s prying fingers. Ihy curled on his lap, clinging to his front, quiet.

“What have I missed?” he asks when she finishes her inspection. A factor of the times, the women a bit immodest.

Mother shrugs. “Well, Bastest has been freed, taken up with some magicians,” she states simply, like it’s the old days. “Our dear Nephthys found from an _unknown source_ that the snake has plans of rising.”

“That’s comforting,” he mutters. “Sun swallowing and all?” Why is Nephthys flushed? _Probably_ shame, knowing her. “How’d a magician release her?” Why anyone would release _Bastest_ is beyond him. She had her job of fending of the snake. No wonder he’s rising.

His sisters glance at each other. Nephthys wraps herself tightly in her robe. “I don’t think that—we don’t know,” she says. Like that isn’t suspicious. No matter, Ihy will fill him in.

Horus brushes Ihy’s hair back. “You two have gotten into trouble, haven’t you?”

“Not trouble—”

“—just things you may not support.” (Ihy tells him after dinner, after a shower, that Nephthys went to see Anubis, had come home with fresh bruises and fresh news. Isis had hosted, or (in Ihy’s words) _fuddled around with_ , the girl trying to bring Bastest out. He promises too that him and Hathor were good.)

He’d never force them along. “...alright, then.” Horus stares at his wife’s back. Something else he meant to ask. “Apartments in France?” And suddenly, he’s not looking at her back, wife spinning on pointed toe. He wonders bitterly why she had to stop cooking in order to talk. She squeezes around his sisters, a bit claustrophobic as they crowd at his seat.

Her hand on his cheek, Ihy reaching for the front of her shirt. “I am grateful you woke when you did. Your sisters and I have discussed moving for quite some time.” He quite likes Hathor natural, the haze of his nap bothering him still. She’s lovely no matter what, he chastises himself, that is the point.

“We have been here for a while,” he agrees. “Where were you thinking?”

“I was thinking Paris, for us. Ihy and I have looked at apartments.”

* * *

 

    Hathor leads him through the streets of Parisian markets. Back to being arm in arm, the bustle of the market like home all those years ago. Ihy is not at their sides, for whatever reason trying with mortal school. (“It’s what people do, and he wants to learn French naturally.”) He’s free to admire Hathor all he pleases, golden eyes sweeping over her fine body, lingering at times on her flower. His.

    “Hold this, would you, love?” she asks, offering to him the bag from the bakery. He isn’t as awake as he’d liked to be, but it is what it is (he hasn’t slept since he woke up fifteen years ago; what if he does it again?). The floral print on her dress distracts him as she makes nice with others. Life is different. Cars and phones now. Running water.

    Tourists, according to his wife, now litter Dendara. Yet she carries on and on, having missed their pilgrimage together. Her serene smiles, glancing up at him and holding his gaze. “You are not all back, are you?” she asks. He shakes his head. “Poor dear,” she says, “I hope you feel better.” She pecks his cheek.

    “Thank you, sweet wife,” he says. “Perhaps Dendara will refresh me.” Her smile grows a little undefined. He’s thinking about their old marriage bed, the original allure of Hathor being off limits. One of Re’s cherished daughters, host of Sekhmet and Re’s eye, dancer and adored by mortal women. Horus divorced his other wife just for her, interest lost. Whatever is happening in her head he doubts it’s in the same vein.

    “Husband.” He plays with her hair. “I’ve an idea.” Hers work out better than his.

    “And that is?”

    Hathor slips their wallet into his pocket. “It is not Dendara that will revive you, but your soulmate. We’re going to find them.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**i feel forgiven all the sins i didn’t commit/for long minutes at a time. what were they?**

Momma dances plenty this century. Through the kitchen, as limited as the spacing is, she fiddles with the stove, with the small fridge. Papa’s head on his fist, his golden eye lazily following her round. And Ihy ignores his homework, parents speaking their first language. They’re acting funny, Momma’s hair down and covering her neck, Papa grumbling about their marriage. “Monogamous or _not,_ imagine how much fun you could have with your soulmate!” Momma tries, stepping over him on the floor.

    “Most wives are grateful for faithful husbands,” he says. “Would you _like_ for me to sleep around?” Voice has none of the bite it could if he was still pharaoh, frustrated and level. They’re talking about gross adult things anyway. Marriage. Soulmates. He’s more pressing matters, the matted fur of his two hundred year old lamb. Do toy makers still make toys? He hopes.

    Going to get lost in his mother’s skirts, he’s ignored as she sweeps by him. “That is not what I’m saying. You would have _me_ , and you would have your soulmate. Just us. _You_ are not allowed to sleep around, I am not.” The cabinets are quiet when she closes them. Are they gunning for divorce? Never. They have been together forever.

    Papa grabs him by his shirt, dragging him up onto his lap. “Soulmate or not, you are my one.”

    “Your one or not, the draw of your soulmate is impossible.” Ihy shows off the lamb, waving it in Papa’s face. He could skip school while Momma’s at work and go with Papa to get one. School is unnatural anyway. He’s lived long enough to know it all. Besides French. The thing that matters.

    “Yes, yes, little son, it’s a nice lamb,” he mutters, patting him on the head roughly. “Now, Hathor, it’s you and I. No room for anyone else.” Which Ihy protests at, and it’s quickly rectified to, “Besides Ihy, _obviously._ ”  He's fine with being shrugged off. They're having a stupid argument anyway (for the first time in two thousand years!).

“You're so _cranky_. A soulmate would put that spring back in your step.”

“I never _had_ a spring in my step.”

Momma huffs. “You’re old. Whatever soulmate you have will undoubtedly be young and mortal and more alive than you’ve ever been.”

“We are still married.” Papa stresses. He, personally, barely remembers the time when Lord Re was his father, not his grandfather. He vaguely remembers his mother as an unmarried princess, when he was free to cling and avoid the many governesses it was customary for him to have. Mother Hathor and her numerous feline sisters reared him, devoid of duties and a father figure. And then—grandfather Re is old, senile, and dull to reason, and came the silent reign of Osiris. Re’s daughters were offered to stay. A majority didn’t. Momma did, her new band of handmaidens and watching Osiris’s heir grow and eventually flirting with her. Then Osiris’s heir taking the throne, haggard and his flirtations more serious, diving into courting, and while the early years are fuzzy, Ihy remembers clinging to her front like death, glowering at the man ignoring him for a taste of his mother.

He's pulled from his memories and from Papa’s lap, set down on the counter. Momma’s smile, “Could you close your eyes for me?” He could. But instead his knees marry his chest, hiding his face behind his lavender scented lamb. It's good enough for her.

The hand meant for holding his tilts Horus' head up. Ihy hopes the impossible day he starts dating (never!) it's someone as sweet as his mother. “And we’ll still be married. We wouldn't tell your soulmate, though. I’d remain faithful like always. You have your mate, and I wait patiently for you to return to my arms.” And, if he was absent, Ihy knows there would be a comment about her thighs.

But it's a bad idea on Momma’s part. They, Egyptian gods, have always been different than the Greeks, and for a large part it's their monogamy. If Papa was as _loose_ as the Greek’s Lord Zeus, Momma would have killed him for each side consort. But now she's offering him to _be_ with someone else, waiting for him despite his future infidelity.

He sees the way Papa tenses beneath her, his free hand gripping the marble counter and splintering it. “ _Drop it_ ,” he demands, “that is an order.”

Her smile dies. “I am simply saying—” Pap—Horus snaps his head back, away from her.

“And _I_ am saying drop it.”

Momma doesn't flinch like his aunt would have. No. Ihy looks at her eyes, seeing Sekhmet’s fires for a moment. Then she plays _hurt wife_ very well, crying and huffing. It does get a rise out of Horus, his eyes widening, but they're _fighting_ , so he remains steadfast in his seat. Despite knowing it's an act, Ihy responds like the child he is in the presence of his _hurt_ mother. He gets his little body between Momma and Horus. His arms around her neck, headbutting her shoulder. He plays along. She's not _truly_ harmed, but it has been years since Horus snapped at her, at anyone.

Least he thought it was fake. The wail in his hair is akin to mourning cries.

* * *

 

Ihy wakes the morning after, far too late, lamb hidden against his bosom. The light of the sun is blinding, reflected through the windows and onto his solid sheets. The house is quiet, and Momma must still be at work. Or avoiding Papa (which, if they're fighting, he certainly doesn't want to be left alone with him).

Leaving his room to enter the cramp hallway, he trips a bit on his sleep pants like the graceful child he is. He finds his father in the kitchen/living room, at the same island they fought at last night. He doesn't look like he's moved, except for the loosened top button and jewelry excerpts to thumb through. Papa showers Momma with gifts for the next few months to rectify raising his voice to her. Least he feels bad, Ihy decides, and he can like him.

“Hi, Papa,” he says. Poking his head over the counter to a small plate of magically warmed breakfast, a purple post-it scribbled with, ‘ _Be good!! :)’_ in Momma’s refined handwriting. Plums and eggs, a current favorite. He breaks out in a smile. Always thinking of them.

And Papa, ever eloquent, grunts back. So he eats breakfast glued to his father’s side. He wants to help make Momma happy again, no matter if her happiness is for Papa to be with someone else. Mother first, father second. Fingers pruned by plum juice, he leaves violet stains on the ads. Papa doesn't comment, eyes sullen, starring the ones Ihy notes. The stack of jewelry ads they skim through is thicker than him (gods, where do they keep it all?). They decide on a pretty bracelet, and Papa (setting the ads and prying the toy out of Ihy’s hand) helps him clean the juice off his fingers before sending him to get dressed. And since he seems to be in a better mood, he asks, “Can I get a new lamb?” More quiet. Papa bites his cheek; it hollows out. They never tell him _no_ though, so Papa agrees to a new lamb, and asks as follow up,

“Why a lamb? After all these years?”

He shrugs, picking it back up and staring at the beady black eyes of the lamb. “It's one of the first things I can _remember_ Momma giving me,” he admits. “The sistrum, obviously,” her crouched in front of him, face glowing, offering him the rattle, “then the first lamb after you and Momma…you know.” Hoisted up on her hip, poked on the nose, _He’s nice, believe it or not. A little temperamental, but he’s kind to me and promises to be kind to you_.

_Why do you have to get married? he asked._

_I don't_ have _to, I want to._ She was the best out of Re’s daughters, the perfect blend of motherhood, femininity, and war, rolled into one tall woman.   

Papa frowns. “We—We didn't grab your sistrum.” Papa runs his hand through his hair, remembering the confusion. “We could have gotten you another.”

Ihy giggles. “It was fine, Papa. Everyone left something behind.” He's ignoring Papa trying to look in his eyes, staring at the lamb, but Papa’s strong, ‘forcing’ his head back. He’s grateful that Papa woke up, yet he's so frustrating at times, both use to getting what they want.

“Yes, we left behind weapons and scrolls and clothes. But your sistrum could've been easily replaced,” he says. The words come slow. Enunciating his words, driving them into Ihy’s head.

Ihy squirms. “That's not the point. If you can go without, then I can.”

“You are my son; you never had to go without. Silly child. Go get me the phone.” It isn't his place to say _no_ , so he does (unfortunately). Hops onto the ground, to find the phone in his parents room (Momma has a cellphone; Papa refuses). Their room is small, compared to former homes, as he goes on his toes around their floor, hampers of folded clothes and Momma’s miscellaneous shoes.

Undocking the phone, he heads back. He passes the swords they're meant to be using, propped in their rack, and he’d rather dabble in controlled violence than his parents’ sympathy. A new lamb will do jack against the snake. A _six-year-old_ will do jack. Papa should focus on himself. He's a hope. A chance at the end. Ihy has always hidden, during the Contendings and any mortal war.

Directly, he was hidden from violence. But when your job is to welcome and guide souls to Osiris’s palace, one hears things. Death isn’t foreign by any stretch. For him. But if the snake is coming...

So when Papa hikes him on his lap again (by the scruff of his collar), he asks, unwillingly handing the phone over, “Does dying hurt?”

Papa dials Momma’s cell phone, number memorized. While it rings, the air changes, the eyes of his father figure watching him so seriously. The gold eye unnerves him the most, like his four sons, harsh and looking like they're ready for a meal of Ihy and vegetables. “It depends. Mine have. Yours will not.” The answer is strong and final, so he shuts up, playing with his coat.

“...hello, sweetheart,” Papa starts, a little awkward. Ihy watches the flush that overtakes his face. “I am fine, dear, it's about the child...yes, he ate...he’s not hurt, no. Dinner? I was going to take Ihy to get another lamb, so possibly later...I was calling about a sistrum. Do you know where we could find one?”

* * *

 

They buy the bracelet along with a ring. Papa has to look up at the salesman, never having changing his height over the years, once regal stature now on the short side. Momma’s on par with him, yet she's a bit tall for a girl.

Papa is flighty, holding him in his arms on the subway, foot tapping nonstop. Neither of them can get away. Perfect time. “Why'd you make Momma cry?” he asks, not in French, Egyptian smooth on his tongue.

Papa replies likewise, “Because I raised my voice.”

“Why'd you do that?”

“She wouldn't stop annoying me.”

Ihy shifts to look outwards. “Why are you against your soulmate?”

“I love Hathor more than anything. I care not for _the_ one. She is _my_ one.” Kissing his forehead, “Monogamous. I am content with Hathor. None other. I couldn’t imagine how I would be without her.”

He agrees. “Make her cry again and I’ll...I’ll do something,” he promises.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**when your iris tightens mechanically/around your pupil, that aperture/becomes for me the blacked-out/cockpit of your mind.**

Isis is a far worse driver than Nephthys. She, with their one car, handles the transportation, and like years past, Isis does the socializing. Saturday brunches, nightly hour on the phone with her golden son. They agreed to move, yes, but Isis is pained to be from her son _willingly_ for the first time.

In all she does, Nephthys is cautious. Drives five below the limit, and keeps ample distance between other cars. “We need peppers, don’t we?” her sister asks, purple pen in hand. They’re less of twins now, Nephthys wears dresses and flats, Isis having adopted pants. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am that we don’t deal with cleaning products?” Little magics, self-cleaning dishes and shelves, the higher grade of magic for the demon barrier surrounding their house.

“Yes, sister.” Her smooth palms sweat, creeping into the intersection. “We aren’t good at cleaning anyway,” she reminds, fresh memories of the washer flooded with detergent, slipping on the Pine Sol cleaned floors. She likes the smell of lemons.

“No, we aren’t.” Mollycoddled queen. They’re _adjusting_ , to life sans servants and the last remaining son. (Nephthys pities her sister, it is her place to do so, but she cannot help but think, _At least you know where your son is. At least you talk._ Coddling Horus does not fill the same hole as when she could do it to Anubis from afar.) “Could...could you imagine if we were still in Egypt? The way we were?” she asks. Her peripherals catch Isis playing with her cuticles.

She mulls it over, turning it over her tongue. Egypt’s light, her river charged and teeming, full of life for the people. “It would be nice. We could be together again. Or back to Sumer,” before Nephthys messed up in telling Anubis the truth. To forgive and forget, turn back the clock. “And the snake of course.” Her means of obtaining the information was unorthodox. Isis straddling her on the couch, her strains of magic healing the purple rings around her neck, scolding held quiet with her falling tears. “Are you upset with me, about the whole thing with him?”

“I don’t know,” she says sarcastically, “you snuck off alone to see your abusive ex and didn’t tell anyone where you were going. What is there to be mad about?”

Nephthys frowns at the tone. “I went alone because he wouldn’t talk to me if you were there. I cannot harm him, but if I brought you two...what is scary about little old me?”

“The most terrifying thing about you is how strongly you make the rest of us feel. Positive or negative, we all react in someway to you.” She thinks back, tapping her left heel _, to the dilated golden eyes of the child Horus gaping up at her from his spot in the reeds, seeing her_ lightly _bruised face and trying to remember what his elder self knows. Their third round of Contendings, wounds and pattern fresh; being a well trained child, her_ nephew _had his moments, crying out for his aunt far too loud, crocodile heads lazily peeking to see his hiding place and the mistress of the Nile. a dutiful son, staying in the water like told, so she went to him, dropping to her knees._

“ _Where is your Mother?” she asked, her hands plaiting his hair. His eyes shined with tears. Her first thought, given the time, was he was injured. Yet Isis would never leave their future king injured, and his currently bare back and calves were free from blemishes. “Here, tiny king.” His white teeth sank into the dark, ripe flesh of a fig._

_Social graces forgotten, he talked about the fig, “She is asking temple for,” swallowing, the mass of fruit down his throat, “for sanctuary tonight.” Face streaked with juice, she wiped it clean. “Mother left me here, to not draw attention to who she is. Says she will glamour me if need be,” he said quietly. Isis' temples, like the goddess herself, welcomed the cries of mothers. She could reveal herself, but that would draw Seth’s attention. How far may they run? How fast would Horus age?_

_She smiled. “Is that why you are crying?” Then, like now, mother and child do not handle separation well._

_“No. It is because you are here, Aunt Nephthys.” He nodded, eagerly accepting another fig. A little underweight. Conjuring a cup of watered down wine, she tilted it to his thin lips, caring for him in place of his mother. His_ brother _Anubis had yet to be born. “You always make us smile.”_

_The child Horus fell asleep against her breast. Nephthys cradled their king in her arms, Nile waters swirling around her thighs. The clean skies were her comfort that her husband was not near. He was busy ruling and joshing and whatever it was he did when his staff was away. That was the part of the Contendings were her marriage officially fell apart and she would run to her sister and join her side._

“Isis, you’re too kind, I am not-” _Isis had her shawl draped over her hair, returning with Re’s barge in the sky. Separated by the river, their eyes met, the bags having been lifted from beneath golden eyes. All three stirred. Isis, as permitted by her youth, closed the gap, crossing the Nile in strides._

_“What are you doing here?” she hissed, bony arms snaring her around the neck; the child Horus cried out from being squashed. “Don’t tell me—” she smiled at her. “That is another reason to kill him.”_

They stop at the red light (Isis, when she drove, would blow through them. A sideswiped incident they keep from Horus). “Horus and you have been emotional your whole lives. You just hide them,” she says, deflecting her praise.

Isis rolls her eyes. “Whatever, sister. It is not just us. I hate to say it, but you amplify Seth as well.” The emotions are negative. Euphoria followed by rage, ending in her running.

    A one bedroom apartment, two beds pressed into one, is where they live. Days riddled with storms, the sisters share the space. Thousands of years have passed, but they still braid one another’s hair before sleep, dimmed lights, burning incense. Speakers play low music to mimic the bustle of their old family forgotten.

    Isis' phone rings Horus' personal ringtone. She always answers, and Nephthys kneels behind her sister, working on her hair. If she had a son, she would answer always too. _I couldn’t be the best mother, but I would be a pretty good one_ , she likes to think, a perfectly fine aunt. How different could the two be?

    “ _What?_ ” Isis yells. “Baby, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Shh. You’ll be okay. Mom can fix anything.” No regards for her hair, she stands and rushes to the dresser. Nephthys knows not what is happening, but springs into action. Yanking a clean skirt over her shorts, she works well in tandem with her, packing (or, rather, restocking) their suitcase. Isis drones on comforting her baby. Taking some initiative, after throwing in a _I love you, brother dear_ , she books a redeye to Paris. The Duat isn’t stable enough for a portal; the women of the Demon Days traversing in the Duat is a fine meal for a world-eating snake.

    Running to check the barrier surrounding their apartment, she turns all the lights off, making sure all the dishes are clean. “What happened?” Nephthys asks frantic. Hathor is capable of taking care of him, so for him to call Isis?

    “It is—It is his eye, the silver one. He cannot see out of it.” Her palms are bleeding. “According to him, it is also his true form affected.”

* * *

 

    Mother Nut smiles at them.

* * *

 

    Nephthys keeps vigil beside the groggy Horus. His mother — after fussing over him, checking his eye, and offering him a pain reliever spell (which he took) — headed back into the living room, shooing his wife and child _out_. Isis is busy reading her old scrolls from Egypt, linking the pieces of his ailment to a cure.

    He refuses to open his eyes. She does her best to comfort him, blacking out the windows, sponging cool water on his neck, tracing the markings on his back to keep him focused. One place his mind has gone, she guesses. The first time he lost his eye. No wailing now. Least the socket isn’t empty. There is no blood. The silver eye is unresponsive, blinded, but intact. Ahead of the last time.

    She tries to, but cannot, smile. _If_ he looks, it should be a good thing he sees. “Brother, will you speak?” she broaches. He’s not quite the same young man from when they left home. Slimmer. Willing to deal with what the world gives him. The impending end of days does nothing to spur him along, seemingly content in his day role of watching Ihy and hours on the phone with his mother. (“ _What can we do without hosts? We are not the only players needed._ ”)

    “Yes, littlest sister? About what?” She, being a master of soft spoken, has no issues hearing him.

    “Whatever you please.”

As a child, he was receptive to motherly doting, and he’s susceptible to it today. Rolling on his back (she shifts smoothly to remain out of the way), he says, “I do have apologies for dragging you two out here. It’s instinct to cry for Mother.” His voice hitches. The child Horus would be on his mother’s lap, thumb jammed in his mouth. Far too old for that. Besides, she remembers, he always loses his eye as a teenager, and learns the hard way to handle alcohol as an adult. Horus has never had to manage himself.

She laughs airly. “For you, it is nothing.”

She catches the ghost of a smile. “We’ve been together forever, sister. I appreciate you running to my aid, but you need not always do it.” The adult Horus, sobered by the night’s events, struck by panic. Nephthys will admit to that being Isis' one failure as a parent, doing the complete opposite of her child in desperate need of, well, anything _but_ getting his hand cut off.

“It is what I do,” she replies. “I do little elsewise.”

Horus draws his arm over his face. Her need to take care of her family rears its ugly head. She cannot heal _this_ , the magical properties surrounding his eye exist far outside her capabilities.

Nephthys applies another dose of pain relief, laying the hieroglyphs to the cheek beneath the offending eye. “Brother?” she asks. The darkness of his bedroom is disrupted by the glyph.

“Yes?”

“May you open your eyes?”

Horus frowns. He has no kohl on neither does she. “Mother said not to,” he reminds. Dutiful son. “She does not want for me to strain them.” He sits up, his bare ankles resting beneath his clothed knees.

They’ve been here too. She would rather be here than the other times, all relatively content. No war, no fratricide.

“I wish Mother would hurry up,” he says loudly, voice meant to travel. His voice drops for his next sentence, “I am meant to go to Dendara soon. You two can watch little Ihy?”

She draws the sponge over his neck. “Are you _fit_ to go to Dendara?” she questions. Hathor wouldn’t jeopardize his health for her temple. She is a good wife, but Horus is a good husband as well.

“Hathor missed a hundred visits. I’ll make them up to her,” he says. “I’ve one good eye.”

Nephthys smiles. “Brother, dear, you should exercise some caution in regards to your health. You are our sun, after all.” Horus, incapacitated by his eye at the final battle, the snake devouring all with no struggle. And Horus starts to answer, mouth poised, but the door opens, his head perking to the sound. Attuned to his mother. She watches Isis kiss his forehead, listens to his receptive hum-purr, catching the way he seeks her out, leaning into his mother’s warmth. She knows, for certain, that _they_ have no issues of blurring the lines of their sibling relationship and their new one.

    She also knows that her time here is done. Staying here with crowd the room; Isis is busy with her baby and doesn’t notice. But despite being smothered, Horus' senses are well above average (almost godlike! she snickers), wrapping her wrist with his fingers. He tugs, a quiet _Stay._ There will be splotches of bruises come morning, but who is she to say no to him? She falls beside him once more, rubbing his back.

    Isis pulls away from him. “Look at me,” she says. Nephthys watches her unfurl a scroll, browning papyrus, and she recognizes Thoth’s near legible handwriting. Horus slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times. She peers over his shoulder, her heart stopping at the sheer lifelessness of it. His golden eye is as lively as in the past, dimly shining in the night, focusing on Isis with a borderline animalistic quality. He looks away, raking in the rest of the room (thankfully, the gaze doesn’t fall on her). Yet the silver eye, the culprit at hand, is lifeless, unfollowing, ignoring his beloved mother. (He has sought her out, always, no matter the pain, no matter the time nor fight.) The sisters’ frowns mirror one another.

    “My baby,” she murmurs, pained, before recomposing herself. Skilled hands wipe away the markings on his cheek, wipe away what little Nephthys has contributed. (She tries to remind herself that that isn’t completely true. She has some prowess among them.) “It turns out, my lord, that your eye may be far more dependent on the Duat than we initially thought. I wish we knew earlier, but what can we do now?” Isis lifts the hieroglyphs from the page, hovering with it, fingers shaking, hesitating. Her amber colored magic casts shadows over his face. “You trust your mother, don’t you? Know I would never harm you?” she asks.

    Horus watches her once more. “ _Never_ hurt me? We know that is not entirely true. What are you getting at, Mother?” She has hurt him, yes, but never in full stability. Nephthys doesn’t like the fact, but it’s true. She drags her short nails over his mark, following one line of runes to completion, then switching tracks. A remarkable pain tolerance, but in love with the affections his mother and sister will lather him with while he _suffers_.

    “...I’m not quite sure if I can heal you,” they have never lied to his face. They have yet to tell him about the visit from his sons. “Your eye is dependent on the Duat, which is dependent on the balance of Ma’at and Is’fet. If they are unbalanced…”

    “Then you may not be able to do anything to help?” he finishes.

    Her powerless hand strokes his cheek. “Yes. Or it may just be acting up,” for the first time in thousands of years, “independent of the Duat. I can’t guarantee anything, besides...turning it off.”

    Nephthys feels him tense. To lose his eye again? _Not_ at Seth’s hands? She wonders if Hathor would start dancing outside of Dendara if it happens. Least that might make him happy.

    Bad train of thought.

    “Well…” he swallows, “okay, then.” Horus fidgets. “Wait, wait.” He stands, tall and proud, walking across the room in long strides. A few thousand years ago, this could have fit, cocky king and crown, hands clasped behind his back, sword at his side. But this isn’t Egypt; it is their sad ex-king in a small Parisian apartment. “No, no, Mother, I—”

    The sisters’ cock their heads. “Yes? What’s wrong?” Besides the obvious.

    Horus swivels on his toe to walk the other way, wobbling a little. Graceful. “I cannot lose my eye. I have no Contendings, no wars, no kings, no hosts.” His voice hitches hard, and Nephthys fears the air is being choked out of him by some unseen force. “Who would I be without my eye? To not have it or anything else that I’m known for? Or use to be known for? My sons are long gone, and my wife is trying to pawn me off. What is the point? The snake? _We_ cannot do anything.” Despair doesn’t fit him, she would lift it if she could, yet his points are valid.

    Isis dismisses the magic back to it’s resting bed. “Baby. I know.” Nephthys _has_ known, known that she doesn’t exist outside of the Contendings. She has never. Osiris brought the mortals agriculture, Seth led Re’s armies, Isis became the people’s mother against Re’s mistreatment, and Horus — their king and general. She hasn’t even had a husband or son/nephew to worry over.  “Would you live in pain?”

    “Yes.” Nephthys breathes deep. “I cannot lose the last part of me. Please. I will be fine with—with medicine the rest of my days.” Glamours to cover the wards, brother dulled to pain for the rest of his life. “I’d put my faith in your magic before the restoration of Ma’at,” he admits.

    “Horus.” Isis looks at her, unable to meet him. “You can’t. Your pain is our pain,” she throws out. “Some faith. Ma’at will be restored.” Nephthys had forgotten about Isis' tryst with the mortal woman and Bastest. A few years following that, they had felt it, two weighted pins dropped into the world, the limited magic trickling towards them.

    Nephthys nods along. “Brother, dear, Ma’at cannot be restored without you. You need be in top shape.” Her sister’s eyes are glittering pools of gold, a portal to the Duat; somewhere in there is the palace. They’ll get it back.

    He makes a fist. “Mother. Sister. I appreciate your concern. I value your opinions. But I will not lose this part of me. End of discussion.” He punctuates it with their customary kisses against the tops of their heads.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**i’m mostly a father here, a husband, barely a son/the big sun rises early here, as i do, with everyone.**

Horus falls asleep on the plane to Egypt. The expanding horizon of clouds, once entertaining, has turned mundane. And Hathor, dear wife, lays her hand on his thigh, grounding him. The dull throbbing in his head does that too. Despite the loss of vision, he can see down through the clouds clearly, the buildings of Turkey splattering the old Anatolia. The ruins of Illium exist down there. A fair part of their lives have become ruins.

He wakes to Hathor firmly squeezing his shoulder.

“Dear, we’re here,” she says, standing up.

He yawns, nodding gently along to her voice. His vision takes a minute to catch up; the blurry lines of the plane, the fuzzy shape of her calves poking out of her marginally longer, salmon colored dress. _Modesty._

Hathor offers her hand, helping him up, and proceeding to tuck her hands in his elbow like all those years ago. Her fingertips sing with magic, tingling up his arm, and he lets it travel all the way to his heart. Hathor could never kill him, incapable and fearful of it. Besides, both her and Egypt’s natural magic lightly fight for it, making his heart beat heavily. Both vying for their king’s attention, both rejoicing in the face of what is natural.

No luggage (she took her purse as carry-on). The temple servants always take care of them.

The stale air of Luxor airport weighs. Luxor is the closest to Dendara, not they (gods) would be allowed in Cairo, what with it being a doorway into the first Nome. His sword at Iskander’s throat. That’s a nice memory. He should have done it far sooner, before he evicted them from their home, and driven home the point. As their king, he should have done something to keep them home, not lie down and take it.

Hathor tugs on him, tucked against the wall. She fishes in her purse for their permits, and he asks, “Didn’t Ihy want you to call?” The child patting her face in Paris, unwillingly grabbing his grandmother’s hand, begging her to call once they landed and before she turns the phone off again. “I should talk to Mother as well.”

“You’ll worry her sick, Horus, with your eye. Let her heal you,” Hathor says, handing over his _permission_ to be in his _own_ country. “How will you protect me if we’re attacked?” she tries, pouting at him.

“I can still see. Fighting with one eye hasn’t deterred me before, has it?” The permit has been around since the sixteen, eighteen hundreds? He doesn’t remember. A while. “Are you telling me you’re not capable of defending yourself? You’re not that weak of a woman. If you wish to be a meek housewife, fine, I will treat you as such.”

She rolls her eyes, taking the phone from his pocket. He couldn’t. A housewife implies he would have to go back to working, in a time in which the one thing he is good at (war) doesn’t award the same amount of money it use to. And, not that he could ever verbally admit it, it is nice to be home and to see her everyday, no pause.

Domestication is starting to fit.

    Horus inclines his head towards his wife. “You had mentioned the tourist trap your temple had become,” he ignores the magicians before him, irritatingly taller. “But I never noticed to the degree.”

It is akhet, when the rains flood the Nile and inflate the silty soil, a prime time for farming. Or what he’s come to know as _summer_ , when the world pauses in the face of heat and little mortal families embark on vacations. Boar hunting was always fun, and if his only remaining child wasn’t a weak seven-year-old, he’d miss the hunt. Four...moderately competent sons filled the time. (And ruling. Ruling as regent was a filling pastime.)

    She’s respectful, smiling at their babysitters before attending to him. “We’re usually here before it begins, wrapped up together. Rarely do we venture into the mortal part. Although, this year I hope we look at my old temple. Better days.” Despite years of not altering his appearance, content with the constant way Mother, Nephthys, and Hathor can all easily hug him, attempt to crush him, eye level with him, gold to gold to brown. Being shorter than people meant to be under his power is infuriating. In the loosest sense of the word.

    The mortals glance at each other, elbowing themselves roughly. “Are you two really gods?” a voice asks, from the girl with the headscarf. He can only see her eyes that burn like fire, keen as a hunting bird. He has seen this before, distinctly familiar, dragging the past to the forefront of his mind. Kings in their throne rooms, kings in their chariots. They’re _awake_.

    One explanation. “Are you really a godling, little girl?” She reeks of it. The divine blood of mortal kings scalds his nose. _His_ divine blood sings at it, recalling days passed. _Claim a host._ His wife must notice it now too, nose wrinkling.

    Her reaction is all the answer he needs. She flinches, no doubt she is aware. But how could Iskander let the magicians breed a godling? How could Iskander let a godling in their presence? His mind must be feeble at his age. She doesn’t cower, even as Hathor steps a little closer. “...that is not your concern. The Chief Lector has allotted you your two weeks. Use them well.”

    His wife is acting odd, dangerously close to the girl, close enough that her companion draws a sword. He cannot help the growl in his throat. The magician draws his sword, and likewise, he draws his wife behind his arm. “Put it away,” he says. No harm shall befall her, a promise to her—

    “Father.” Her light voice is exultant. Hathor yanks on his shirt. “Look. Father is trying to-” the Duat is off kilter to look at with only one eye. The balanced colors now clash with one another, but despite the chaos in the order, it’s easy to spot the old crippled form of Re wrapping up around her. Re is old and senile, brittle fingers scratching at her chest. Mother was right in what she did. “How can he-”

    Re’s failed host braces her companion. “Julian, stop. Let us all part ways and not speak of any of this. If...if you do not mention me to anyone, your two weeks here will be spent without us. Deal?” Moxy. Cute.

Their normal peaceful time is spent with Hathor pacing through the shrine of her father. “What are you trying?” she voices out loud. He should worry too; why would Re risk the livelihood of his beloved daughters? His soul is leaking in his senile centuries. Perhaps one day, with his wife at work and Ihy located some place, he can grab Mother and visit their _favorite_ lord king. “I would ask what you are doing and not do it, but I cannot, given that I do not know where you are taking this.”

    Horus sighs. Hathor, for a moment, has unadopted contractions. Not well. “Hathor,” he says. Her sandaled feet pad the stone floor. “You know your father is far too incapable to answer.” Her glare snaps on him, golden fires of Sekhmet attacking him. He smiles sheepishly, relying on old boyish youth to kill it.

    “You are my husband and king. I love you. But your family has no right to discuss mine.” She goes back to pacing, anger crawling up his spine, sinking his teeth into his tongue. She is his wife with no right to talk to him like that. Yet he _is_ her king, and in turn she is his queen; voicing her opinion is her right. He would not have it any other way.

    He loosens his tie. They will be fine.

* * *

 

    Hathor worries her way through two weeks.

    He treats her kindly, sending servants to find the gifts. He buys her fine linens. Jewelry. Brooches. A gemmed hair comb. Stupid tourist trinkets. They ignore the mortals, spending time in Dendara like it’s meant to be: in one another’s arms. The temple flourished beneath its Mistress Hathor’s dancing feet.

    At night, when the sun dies, she asks for the hardest request that goes against the one rule they have had in their years of marriage: “I want you to give yourself to your soulmate like you do me, understand?” Perfectly manicured nails etch along the mark that sparks this conversation. The tip of her index at the center of his shoulder blade, following it down his side, scratching gently. He’s barely focused, mouthing at her neck.

    “Hm? Why?” His wrists are falling asleep from resting on them. “You are too hooked on this concept.”

    She laughs. “I am certain that you and your soulmate will bring us home.”

    That wakes him up. He perks up, kissing his silly wife’s nose. Home is gone. A mortal will not change that. “Ridiculous. But for you, whatever.”

* * *

 

    Horus does it, arm laced with his wife (such a loose word now) as they weave through crowds of tourist, spotting a kid that makes his heart hammer. “Hathor, Hathor Hathor,” he repeats in his borderline unwarranted excitement, gripping her elbow, yet for once he isn’t looking at her. The kid is looking at him too, bright hazel eyes burning with recognition.

    He stares back, head cocking minutely (old habits die hard). The kid seems to find it amusing, smiling as he does. It is brilliant, charming, cheeks dimpling; curly hair down his temples, and hanging limply over his forehead. His back burns. Soulmates are a load of crock. But seeing his alleged _soulmate_ ignores thousand of years of disbelief.

    Hathor hums. “Yes?” She follows his sightline, her bell-like laugh quiet. “ _Oh_. Is that?”

    “I am assuming. It is not like I have experience with this.”

    “Don’t get smart with me. Go. I’ll be waiting.” He catches her standing on her tiptoes, inclining for a kiss, and stopping, stiffly patting his shoulder. He supposes he has to pretend to be single.

    He returns the smile, looking pointedly towards the old feast hall. That’s a relatively dead area.

    The kid hesitates. He gets it, to a point, that things could go horrifically wrong, and being alone with strangers is a trait that has died over the years. Horus could handle a little mortal, especially the one he’s looking at. A smidge taller than him perhaps, strong shoulders beneath his polo, but a _mortal_.

    But he agrees. The kid says something to the blonde beside him; he catches her eyes roll.

    Horus starts first, right foot and then the left. He attempts to quell his beating heart. Do the old dating laws still apply? The lottery wouldn’t give him someone he couldn’t date, right? The system is supposedly flawless. To cap it all off, he’s the pharaoh; if he doesn’t follow the laws, who will? But then again, who is he setting an example for? Ihy has his own moral compass.

    They both reach the hall at the same time, going deeper in. He was right, unfortunately: the kid is taller. Barely. His eyes only have to drift up a little to make proper eye contact. It could have been worse. The kid’s cute, too, still smiling, pinchable cheeks flushing. Hathor is fine with this.

    The kid, his soulmate, pulls his hand out of his pocket, offering it to shake. He does, his mind wondering briefly how such an attractive man has calloused hands. Someone this cute couldn’t do menial work. He’s snapped out of his thoughts, however quick they were, to the kid’s voice. “I’m Carter Kane.”

    Carter. _Carter._ The name is simple, and he quite likes it. His speech is a little formal but his accent still bleeds in (or it’s just Horus' good hearing). It fits him, distinct enough from the people in Mother’s apartment complex but it is American in nature. The collared shirt (blue) tucked into dark khakis reminds him of the collegiates that roam Paris.

And while Horus has never considered himself overly attracted to men due to his...past experiences– scratch that. Has only ever been _truly_ attracted to his wives, and wives alone. Never a wandering eye, the servant girls he use to send Hathor purely a matter of war prizes. But the kid is stirring something within him, his back burning with recognition and his mind spinning with the implication. He has a _soulmate_ , who is currently staring at him.

    He remembers the last name Hathor uses on forms and whatnot. After he had woken up from his nap, and she had planned everything to the nth degree, save for the apartment. “Horus Charpentier,” squeezing his hand faintly. His smile? Wars have been waged over things less brilliant.

Woah.

Slow down. _Soulmate_ or not, he just met him. He’s acting like he put crock into the whole thing. It was Hathor, his _wife_ , who insisted on it for whatever reason. Sure, he’s adorable as sin (if he lets his mind wander to less than clean places, he can picture long legs around his waist, or probably the other way—), but like he called himself monogamous, he like to imagine _courting_ is still a thing. Courting he knows. Dating? Not so much.

    “You’re French?” Surprise creeps into his voice.

    Horus shakes his head. “Technically; I was born in Egypt, but _je parle francais_ and what not. I live in Paris.”

    Carter laughs. “Well, I’m American, if that’s not obvious.” He lets go of his hand, sliding it in his pocket. “ _Horus Charpentier_. That’s quite a name.” His heart pounds at the mention of his name. Names have power, and he just threw his out there. Right.

    “I don’t think it’s too noticeable, no.” He tries to remember all the facts of courting, how he did Hathor. Smiles, gifts, assuming the throne, Hathor waiting for him to be old enough to properly court. The stretch of six hundred years between a round of Contendings, their large marriage festival, godly palace and Dendara decked out. But gifts, warm up the family. “Do you live there? My mother and aunt live somewhere in the states.”

    “Yeah. Currently in New York with my sister,” he says. _That’s_ something to talk about. Family, and how quickly he has to carefully reposition Hathor and Ihy in his life. He can’t dismiss Hathor from his life completely; she is too instrumental to his life to toss her aside despite her pushing for him to do... _this_ . Whatever this is. Path to courting. Soulmate. Who, the more he looks at (there is a miniscule flush to his face, his hazel irises obviously locked on him), looks younger than most in his _inner circle_ (read: his family).

    Hathor has always been around three to six years older than him. That’s comfortable. It’s what he knows. “Oh, gods, how old are you?” he asks, diverging from the conversation.

    His smile falters a bit. So does his heart. _Gods_. “Almost twenty-one...and you are?” Carter’s brow cocks, oddly manicured, not that he can question any preening habits. Ihy takes three hour baths with incense. Back when Horus consistently slept and it was the war down time he tried for eight hours.

    “Twenty-seven.”


	13. Chapter 13

**if i fell through the floor/i would keep falling. the enormity of my desire/disgusts me.**

    Ihy huffs. “ _They’re late_ ,” he says, settled on the kitchen counter per the norm. “ _Why are they late?”_ Nephthys opens the cabinet beneath him, digging for a small pot. She wishes they weren’t late. She loves their sun, but as Re’s sun climbs in the sky, clock ticking seven a.m., having been up since midnight, she decides that she can love him another time.

“Do you want breakfast?”

“I want Momma.”

“I’ll take that as a _yes._ ” He cries; she swallows the lump in her throat. “Call your grandmother,” she offers, gesturing to the phone. Her lips remained sealed despite him waltzing over the marble, mainly because he’s an immaculate child living in pristine homes. His bare feet, his bare chest; some habits die hard, and some are reignited by the familiar humidity that plagues Florida. Once Ihy figures out where his missing lord father and lady mother are, and before they leave back for France, she can easily envision him curled on Horus' chest like the past.

She leaves him to his task, propping the fridge door on her hip. If she makes breakfast for all of them, it’ll last till they come home (assuming her dear siblings plus the lady wife come in the next twenty four hours; how couldn’t they?) through Isis' magic lacing the apartment. Nephthys decides to make enough breakfast for everyone. It’ll be fine.

The kitchen is quiet. They exist in silence. That’s how it’s always been. Plus, she has nothing in particular to speak to Ihy about. Her nephew he may be, she knows little about him today. Back a few thousand years, when he was the son of the _Pharaoh_ Horus there could have been something. She knows how to speak to royal children, to dead children, but a very alive, technically noble child? Fresh. Very fresh.

And any time she talks to her own son, things go terrible.

She knows better.

Least she likes to think.

Ihy chats with Isis while she cooks, the phone cord wrapped about his wrist. But it’s quiet, borderline inaudible over the running water, the sizzle of meat, background ambience of a constantly running radio, but his little voice lilts with their first language, more natural than French or English or whatever language they speak will ever be. And given the tone of his voice, how it falls, their lovebirds haven’t reached the airport.

“...no good?” she prods. Ihy cries. “Okay, then. Do you want to help me?”

“No, not really.” He opens a cabinet to step on, thin arms hoisting himself up and sitting down right by the stove, little bronze hands hovering for what? Warmth? “Can I tell you something, Aunt Nephthys?” Worry creeps into his voice, cracking.

This is her chance. She’ll alternate between craving her child or a child for the rest of her days. “Yes, of course.”

He flexes his fingers. “...you don’t think Papa would hurt Momma, do you? They were fighting for a while.” Hathor’s son before Horus', birthed by Re’s daughter and then adopted by Horus. His loyalties are always with her, she recalls.

She _cannot_ recall Horus ever raising his fist to a woman, save in retaliation to his own mother cutting off his hand. But to Hathor, queen, goddess, fundamental to…to well, their boys. She can’t picture it. Plus Hathor would fight back, Sekhmet alive in her; she’s never been a docile woman. “No, never. I’m sure something just came up.” She smiles at him to placate him.

Ihy shakes his head.  “They haven’t been getting along, Papa raised his voice—” he sighs, petty and petulant, “he hasn’t done that in a while but Momma was getting on his nerves and we know how Papa used to be.”

“ _Used to be_. Horus wouldn’t go back to being that. Between us, I think he’s fine with being passive and staying home with you, quiet. Don’t worry about your mother.” She kisses the top of his head. “I’ve known Horus all of his lives. Trust my faith in him.”

“...they’re still late.” Despite being adopted, he looks more like Nephthys’ siblings than she does. Eyes, mostly. She looks almost identical to her twin except if anyone looks higher than the broad slope of their nose. “Get me a drink,” he says. “Then I’ll shut up,” he offers, nodding his head.

Nephthys thinks he should _nap_ until his beloved mother comes, but he probably wants to sleep _with_ her. Huddle up to her, as clingy as Horus was at that age.

She complies.

Ihy hasn’t moved from his space when Momma comes to him, toast hanging out of his mouth, ketchup smeared on the corner of his mouth. She is so lovely, face winsome, bright, etched into his mind, lifting his querulous mood and settling him into being Hathor’s child. Flyaways accompany her bun, vibrant green hair tie contrasted to her sun-kissed skin (a gift of Grandfather Re?), refreshed by their homeland’s magic. Her ankle peeks from her jeans, snake anklet circling it; head biting its’ tail. One of Grandfather Re’s snakes.

Her laugh breaks him out of his daydream.

Furiously he scrubs the stain off his face, wipes his hands on his shorts, and tosses himself into her embrace. His heart swells, nuzzling into her neck, Momma’s sturdy hands under his bottom, giggling into his messy hair. He sighs, breathing in her familiar scent. “You’re late. Just like Papa.” Coming home early from war to surprise the wife. “For sun gods, you’re bad at time,” he decides.

“Hush. We made a stop at Paris.” They free fall for a second, Momma crashing into the counter. “Don’t tell me you waited up, baby.”

    “So I won’t,” he says, followed by a quiet, “but I did. Are we going to bed? Is Papa coming? Or is Grandmother Isis going to keep him?” he questions. Lulled by her heat. So will Papa be. But there’s the issue of Papa’s silver eye dying, needing _his_ mother’s attention. Whatever. He can deal so long as Papa understands that Ihy gets first dibs.

    Her body — lithe, laced with muscles yet soft like a mother should be — tenses for a brief second. “I’m sure Isis does need to sink her teeth into him, but then we have to have a talk, as a family. Then we will sleep, okay?”

    Ihy nods. “Are you gonna eat, Momma?”

    “Maybe later.” She rocks him a fair bit, kissing him. “You wouldn’t be upset with your mother if she put you to bed, would you? I’ll update you when you wake. I feel terrible for keeping you up. You’re a growing boy. You need your sleep.” The corner of his eye catches how the rising sun catches her and makes her glow.

    “ _Growing boy_ ,” he mocks, shoving into her as roughly as possible. “I wanna stay with you.” She lets him, light on her feet as she also keeps bouncing him, foxtrotting about the living room while they wait for the other three. Momma tells him quips, jokes about her and Papa before Ihy was _this_ age, when he was pried off her hip. Papa falling gracelessly from his horse, Momma cutting her index finger on the broadhead of an arrow, a mishap with a candle and ruining a set of sheets, teaching him to dance in the secluded privacy of a garden and having her feet stepped on. Lure him to bed with silly stories. It won’t work.

    He lazily peeks over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps. Papa’s cheek is red from Grandmother’s pinching fingers, likely. He shifts through the glamour to find pitch-black hieroglyphics scrawled to help his pain. “Is the brat asleep?” he asks, and while Ihy expects him to kiss Momma, he does none of it, doesn’t touch her. Yet he gives his attention to Ihy, lips to his crown. Apathy has drained from his eye, replaced by a fondness Ihy hasn't been at the end of since Papa stopped going to war. Ihy goes to voice this, allowing his past transgressions to temporarily fall, but Papa says so _sadly_ , “Will he still allow me to be his father, despite–”

    “He is _still_ awake, my lord. He’s waiting to sleep. Get your sisters.”

    Papa complies. “Mother! Aunt Neph!” he calls.

    They come quickly. Grandmother has her makeup smeared. One of Momma’s hands lets go of him, reaching to Papa. “ _You will be fine,”_ she promises in French, “ _they’ll love you even more, probably_.”

    “ _They came to love you as well_.” Momma snorts, falling to the couch. Ihy snuggles further to her. There is the weight of his grandmother beside them, the cushion indenting and causing Momma to fall to the side a tad.

    The sound of the fridge opening. Wift of sangria. He twists to look. Clock hands militaristically click towards nine. Early for drinking. Papa’s clothed back hunched over with preference to the icebox. “ _Horus_ ,” Momma says gently, “ _hurry yourself along_.”

    “ _Yes, yes, dear wi-Hathor. Dear Hathor. Are we still sharing a bed?”_

_“Your sisters don’t have enough space for us not to.”_

_“I mean at home.”_

Momma laughs. “ _We will worry about that later_.”

    Papa sighs. “ _I would like to discuss it_ now _, before this whole fiasco_.” Ihy fidgets on her lap. Something happened this year at Dendara that he isn’t privy to. So when Papa sits on the coffee table (Grandmother Isis opens her mouth to scold him, but Momma’s feminine hand rests on her thigh to stop her), Ihy resumes his spot on his lap, like back in England before they went to see the Chief Lector together. Papa is even warmer than Momma, thick cotton shirt absorbing his body heat. He kisses his head, offering a, “Hello, little one.”

    “What’s going on?” he asks. This seat leaves him to the mercy of the women's gazes. Their trail of vision is acute, harrowing his heart. That’s what Papa dealt with for years. Gross. He was a prince in title and title alone, not dealing with dignitaries, only with those who passed but couldn’t cope. He doesn’t envy him.

    Papa is stiff, leg bouncing. “Hathor and I traveled to her temple, obviously. Fairly routine. Almost. There was a magician present who turned out to be a godling.” Once more, Ihy gets the significance of godlings to _big_ gods like this assorted, assembled bunch. Momma and Grandmother the mortal queen-wife and queen-mother respectively, Grandaunt the...the something. Momma oversaw births through her midwives, Grandmother always the state diviner despite the Per Ankh’s controlling hands. But for him, a god with no reason to ever pursue the mortal plane? Too complicated. “Re’s failed godling, but a godling nonetheless.” Papa explains in vague details of Re gnawing on the godling’s head, trying to share the space. Grandfather Re is a more vivid memory than Father Re was or ever will be. But they all know Re, and it elicits responses from Grandmother Isis.

    “You must be mistaken, dear son. We are all aware of what befell him—he could not come back.” He’d never tell Momma, not to her face, but Grandmother did have some right in doing what she did to Re. He _was_ losing his mind by then, drying out the crops and overheating the land, the people of Kemet looking for someone to blame. Wrestling the throne for her husband muddies the meaning of what she did for the people. “He has likely deteriorated so much by now.”

    Momma snaps, “I know my father when I see him. It was Father Re latching onto a godling. I know not why, and he cannot answer me due to being _deteriorated_. But your stint with that girl all those years ago and now this? Means something.” His hair is being played with, bangs flipped back and forth. “Next point, my sweet. The child needs to sleep.”

    “How you love to boss me around. I met my soulmate. In Dendara. Our last day there.” Ihy chokes on air. His parents _are_ getting divorced. Buying her gifts to placate her after their last fight meant little. “It checks out; his back matches mine. Not that I did anything. Wait. Redacted.” Papa hoists him by the arms back to his mother’s lap. She always knows when he is _not_ okay, and Papa, to an extent. He snares himself back around her neck. “You’ve a new child. I told him Hathor was my sister. Thirty year old daughter.”

    While Grandmother Isis scolds him for that (“ _Fifty! You made me at least fifty!_ ”) and he tries to explain to Grandaunt Nephthys where she fits in, Momma collects him and starts for the upstairs. “Is it true?” he asks, butting her shoulder. “Momma, stop.” She does, peering down at him. “Is it true? Papa’s always been slow so maybe he’s confus-”

    She shakes her head. “It is the real deal.”

    “You’re letting him see his... _soulmate_?” he asks. “What about us?”

    “What _about_ us? We’ll be okay. Nothing is changing, save for him being your ‘uncle’ now. You don’t have a mark, so I don’t think you could understand-it’ll be good, for Horus. He needs to be reinvigorated.” Momma kisses him again. “We are magic, soulmates are magic.”

    Ihy gets that. He’s heard about soulmates his whole life. Adults set for each other outside of Ma’at, a different source handles that, which no one will claim. Gods often don’t find them, hence Momma and Papa, but they’ve worked out fine. Why do they have to change? “But he’s ou-yours.” They weren’t meant to be, he gets that; Papa’s soulmate would have come around due to the nature of time. Yet four thousand years of them together, happily in the face of the downfall of everything they know? It isn’t fair. Some upstart mortal taking his mother’s husband for how long do mortals live? Eighty years? “You take the best care of Papa anyway. You do better than Serqet ever did, and now you’re trusting a mortal with him?”

    Her golden eyes widen. “Where is this coming from? Since when do you care about Horus? He is still living with us, still picking you up from school, still protecting you from the less than savory things that lurk our world. Nothing is changing that hurts you,” she says. “Just because I’ve given him permission to pursue his soulmate doesn’t mean he’ll be successful anyway. We’ll be okay, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’ll be a two week gap until the next update


	14. intermission

**intermission i.**

Ruby Faust is born with the power of divining, and in turn, the Fausts join the Nomes again, albeit unwillingly. How could the Nomes ignore _that_ , even if the extent of her powers are knowing what questions are on tests and what her parents get her for birthdays. It’s _lame_ . At first, the Fausts protested; they had removed themselves enough from their magic to control their own lives, but now? A short caramel loving child that possess too much power to not be ignored. The blood is matrilineal, and Amelia Faust receives heavy scolding for knowingly mingling her blood. Iskander doesn’t dish out punishment, as _They were not apart of us for so long; it is not our place to arrange non-magician marriages._

Ruby meets Julius at fifthteen, the fourteen year old boy hunched over a scroll in the library. It’s electric. She slides up to him on the bench, elbowing him in the side. “ _Hullo_ ,” she says, propping her head on her fist. He waves shyly, not looking up from what he’s reading. She frowns. “Hullo? You home?”

“Yes.” Distinctly American accent. “Do you need something?”

“What’cha reading?” The amount of kids in the First Nome is low. Magicians intermarry often, but with a hundred some other Nomes, they’re taught there. But Egypt has the best scrying bowls, and Iskander and his minion are trying their damndest to make her see more than cheats. (fire, she never mentions the lucid fire that lights the oil, combusting the halls of the reflected nome.)

“A scroll.”

“About _what_?” she asks, rolling her eyes.

“Gods.” 

* * *

 

They become attached at the hip after that, climbing in the secret alcoves of the libraries. “Look, here,” Julius points out, a dusty scroll preserved by the scribes, “people use to host gods. Talked to them.” He idly traces words on it’s back, and Ruby mimics him, doing her best with the hieroglyphs that drift into her head. She tells him about the fires, their knees pressed together, thighs meddled into one. (Julius is an average magician, can turn twine into rope, mold shabiti and bring them to life. But he absorbs knowledge like a sponge, traveling between Nomes with his brother.)

(Khakis rolled up her calves one day, knees tucked to her chest, tracing the ankh on her skin. He certainly feels like _the one_ , not as romanticized as in all of her mother’s books, but similar. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, stuttering over their words, heat pooling in her stomach.

“ _Hey, do you think_ ?” A gesture, something vague and vulgar, hands everywhere. “ _That we’re—? Look.”_ Despite the blistering heat  of Egypt, he's always is dressed so posh, so it’s the first time she sees more skin than his face. Her answer could have come the day his face lit up when she bore her calves, before regaining his composure. Of _course_ they’re meant to be.)

Ruby starts having more divinations a year into dating Julius. At seventeen, she sees dying cats, strangled by scaly hands, burned, splattered with batches of bald spots. Luminous feline eyes implore her, filled with fear and surrounded by darkness, before morphing to a tall woman, sun golden skin scabbed, twirling knives. _You’re the only one who can help me. Everyone else abandoned me._

_Please._

* * *

 

    It’s her first real fight with Julius, hush in her parent’s kitchen at three a.m. He’s tired and jet lagged and not backing down. Amos sits in her living room, playing with the rim of his hat, stuck outside of the crosshairs. “Ruby, think about this; you can’t just summon strange cats because you had a _dream_. What if it’s a trick?”

    “Than it’s a trick. But she asked for help. I’m not saying no.”

    “What if you die?”

    “I’m not afraid to,” she admits. “If you saw what I did, Julius—” London outside their door, quiet in their little bubble. “I’m going. You can come with me, or you don’t.” She tilts her chin up, fighting his gaze. Not a clue how to retrieve the woman, but how difficult could it be, pulling her from another plane?

    He fiddles with his bag strap. “There’s no stopping you, is there? Fine, I’ll go. Let me drop Amos off somewhere.” His little brother; even if she’s an only child, she can understand the need to protect family.

    Amos gets left in a German Nome, and they return to London the next night, drizzle ruining the world and lightning crackling in the sky. The past day Julius read more and more, figuring out the logistics of how to open portals.

    Her rain slicker is yellow, blonde hair plastered to the side of her face. “How’s this go?” she asks. Laying her palms flat against the stone, magic thrums beneath her hands. It’s forceful, up her arms and knocking at her. And then, there’s more than one presence with her and Julius, three of them bearing down on her.

    _What’re you doing?_

_Hurry, before he notices._

The first voice, _You cannot be trying to-_

_Butt out, witch_. The voice from the dreams.

    _Fine, I’ll leave this fledgling magician all by her lonesome to extract a god._ Cat Lady shuts up after that, and the _witch_ lady chimes in. _Why would you want to release her?_ Her hands tingle.

    “B-Because she asked,” she says, Julius glancing at her confused.

    He doesn’t touch her, but hovers, “Ruby?”

    Witch Lady scoffs. _I don’t see why you would. Whatever. This is too entertaining to pass up. Would you like my help_?

    “Who’re you?”

    _The only way you won’t burn up. You’re smoking, right now, my dear._ Having another person shift around in your head? Quite uncomfortable. _Your boyfriend can guide you through it, I’ll just give you the power you need_. Her voice is smug like the girls she goes to school with.

    What does she have to lose? “Fine.”

    The feeling’s comparable to shoving a fork in an electrical outlet, times hundred. Lighting her hands on fire, teetering on her feet and almost blown over by the force of it. _This_ is suppose to keep her alive. Her slicker burning fills her nostrils. Her heart runs a mile, everything in her screams **_STOP_ **, yet it’s the most fun she’s ever had.

    Julius probably isn’t hearing voices, too calm. “Ruby…?”

    She grins. “I’m _fine_. Give me the instructions.”

    He frowns. “...open a portal. You need to be quick, to make sure you get the...cat you want. If you summon something else…” he trails off; out of the corner of her eye she sees him grip his wand and bag strap tightly, shaking. 

    Concentrating, at first drawing on her own magic before Witch Lady redirects her to her deep well of power, the obelisk opens beneath her hands. Into the spiraling depths of their world’s magical undercarriage, the Duat is a stained red, swirling vortex. Witch Lady rummages around in her head, and Ruby is a bit too focused to stop her and ask for privacy.

    Out comes a cat, small and spotted, until it’s head hits the ground. It snaps into a woman, tall and naked and shattered to hell. Ruby doesn’t have much time to look at Cat Lady before Witch Lady starts forcing her to shut the portal. The last thing she sees before falling back on the concrete is a large slithering snake, one gigantic red eye blinking at her, leaving her feeling like a microwaved burrito.

    She can hear Julius yelling, shaking her shoulder. Witch Lady hums and disappears. Ruby’s last memory before blacking out is struggling out of her slicker and draping it over the nude cat lady.

* * *

 

    Cat Lady doesn’t wake up for four days. It’s pretty easy to keep her mom and dad out of her room, holed up with Julius and sleeping on the floor, eating crackers and drinking bottled tea, sneaking away to the bathroom when they need to, climbing to the kitchen in the nights for food that isn’t shit. Ruby’s burnt out and can’t eat enough. Julius calls his brother as much as he can.

    Julius, book nerd, somehow managed to get Ruby and Cat Lady back to her home all by himself. Pretty impressive, and warranted a kiss.

    “What’ve we done?” she asks, the Verve droning out of her record player. She’s tired of reading about DNA bases — adenine and thymine bond via hydrogen, as do guanine and cytosine to form double helixes, called base pairs; adenine and guanine are purines, so on and so forth. “We can’t tell anyone, you know. Not Amos, not my parents.”

    He looks up from his own textbook. Archaeology. “I’m telling my brother. He deserves to know.” Sighing, he crosses his legs. “We did some forbidden magic, summoned a goddesses, while you channeled _someone_. Basically, we’re fucked.”

    She snickers. He doesn’t cuss. “If the House finds out. I won’t tell if you don’t.” They shake on it.

    Ruby wakes up to Cat Lady naked again, sitting up on her bed, running her hand through dark hair. She spares one glance at her chest, always a little curious, before diverting to the corner. “Good morning,” she says, the feline eyes of Cat Lady snapping down at her. Scars and burns litter her body.

    “Hello.” She pulls the comforter on her lap, hiding her lower body. “Thank you for coming. You have my gratitude.” Her head bows. “I am Bastet, Eye and daughter of Re.”

    Bastet. Definitely a goddess. Definitely forbidden. “Yeah. No problem.” Ruby rubs the back of her neck. “Uh, do you want anything? Milk, fish, clothes?” Julius sleeps currently, left on the floor on the mattress of blankets.

    “That would all be wonderful. It’s been forever since I ate.” She smiles. “I am forever indebted to you and your line.”

Ruby shakes her head. “Oh, that’s not nec—”

“Oh, but it is. It is my thanks to you and your boyfriend.”

* * *

 

    Ruby Faust becomes Ruby Kane one drowsy fall day. The Nomes give their blessing, her parents begrudgingly do and Amos does as well. Their pet cat Muffin comes as well, watching from the front row. 

    Three years later, after Ruby finishes college with a degree with biology and they’ve moved to the US, they have their first child, Carter. He’s a small baby, born in the height of June’s heat, quiet and never cries. Ruby’s always hesitant to leave him alone, never sure when he needs anything. Bastet, in the form of Muffin, watches him, lets the baby pull on her tail, sleeps beside him in the crib, alerts her when he’s upset.

    “It was my job to protect the royalty’s children,” she explains. Bastet grooms Carter, curled up on his playmat, tail swinging lazily. “He’s a divine baby, after all.”

    Ruby raises a brow. “Is he now?”

    She purrs. “Don’t you know? Probably not, or you couldn’t have married Julius. Little Carter here has Narmer’s and Ramesses’s blood. They’re perfect hosts.”

    She has one response to that: “Holy shit.”

    Sadie Kane is born on March 17th, two years after her brother. The Kane’s luck is being pushed. Bastet grows excited with _two royal kittens_ , licking Sadie’s cheek, trading between their cribs every night. The goddess recommends being ready to _run_ at any given moment.

    They’re visited by the Nomes in July, Muffin hidden away at Brooklyn with Amos, with Iskander’s disappointed sigh. “They...should not exist...the little Kanes, an oversight on our part…” he starts, “I will not ordered them killed, but in their current states...they cannot,” falling in a coughing fit. Julius grips Sadie harder, Ruby hoists Carter onto her hip. Iskander wheezes, too old to live. “The children will be sealed. Guided lessons at Nomes. Any more infractions...I believe the phrase is three strikes, you are out?”

    Bastet is less than happy when she comes back. “My _kittens_ ,” she seethes, sniffing the sleeping children quite harshly. “That old cuck cannot stop what is destined.” She nudges both of their heads. Ruby’s heart absolutely flutters at how sweet it is. Yeah, sure, her _divine_ children can’t practice magic to their full extent, but at least they have Aunt Kitty.

    Julius looks weary. The last two years she hasn’t worked, busy with their children. “Surely, Bastet, you can teach them _little_ things that no one will notice. Carter and Sadie, if they’re meant for great things, nothing will get in the way. Not if he is bound to rise.”


	15. Chapter 15

**shame on you for dating a museum: everything is dead there and nothing is alive.**

Horus returns to life as normal. He doesn't sleep, picks up Ihy from school daily, goes shopping with Hathor. An early supper, late dinner, Ihy in the bath by nine. The child is a resentful one, peeking out from Hathor’s side. Ever since she told him about Carter (who he hasn’t seen since that day), Ihy adopted a chip on his shoulder, acting as if everything is a personal offense against himself, as if the existence of Horus' soulmate is just to spite him. Which is ridiculous.

But teasing the brat is fun.

* * *

He stares at the dark ceiling, the phone buzzing in his ear. Hopefully the call goes through. Magic interferes with phones, Mother says, and he has no reason to doubt her.

His back aches, sleeping on the couch be damned (he should steal Ihy’s room, considering the brat stays in bed with his mother now), but the lilt to Carter’s voice when he answers remedies it. “Hey, thanks for calling,” he says, as if they don’t do this every other day. He’s started to pick up on his schedule, though, and figures Carter doesn’t talk much in his daily life. At least not leisure talk. Some days, when he’s in the mood, he’ll listen to Carter talk about the small things in his life.

“Anytime.” With the invention of timezones, that ends up being nine at night for him (Carter’s lunch break) or three in the morning (when Carter’s getting home and winding down to sleep).

“How are things?” he asks. Is it too early for nicknames? He’s so use to titles and diminutives. Not tacking a name on the end of the sentence doesn’t feel right. What would he even call Carter? There’s times for these things.

Phones amplify a lot of white noise. The creak of Carter’s office chair, plastic scraping against plastic. “It’s super muggy here. The museum is dead.” If memory serves him right, that means he’s spent his day working on a research paper (he’s a historian with a specification in _Egyptology_ ; how precious). “Sadie and I are having dinner with our parents, and our cat has an appointment at four. What about you? Did that nephew of yours apologize for breaking your mug?”

Horus taps his fingers against his stomach. “No, never.” That unfortunate laugh. He chalks it up to Carter’s status as _soulmate_ that he blushes so easily. “He’s agreed to hold my hand again on the metro, but that’s about it.” He didn’t explain too much about Ihy’s anger, there’s not a good way to explain it, but Carter seems to understand it. He’s made claims of his cat angrily glaring at him when he mentions Horus to his sister.

How he wishes he could see Carter again.

Hush.

“Did you get that…” and Horus rattles off questions until he finds one that gets Carter rambling. The hour of Carter’s lunch break he talks about his car issues. His voice will hitch sometimes in excitement, and there will be a beat of silence as Carter settles.

* * *

“Are you sure I’m not keeping you up?” Carter asks. The phone display reads 03:07, and Carter will go to bed in a half hour. He lives his life on an incredibly consistent cycle.

The cool marble glares at him, over the counter light reflecting the brown and red swirls of the top. Reminds him of home (which is precisely why Hathor got it). The teapot hisses on the stove — Horus has no interest in personally boiling the water — and quiets as he pours it in his mended mug. The water turns pitch black. “My sleep patterns have always been weird, I assure you. Don’t worry yourself about it.” Something else he’s learned about Carter, prone to worrying, sounding downright exhausted on Wednesdays (those are the days he talks to his college counselors), concerned about the happenings that he has no control over. Carter tries to hide that part of himself, though.

“Alright,” he says. Horus settles at the island, leaning back against the iron backing of the chairs. Hathor will be up in two hours. Maybe he could run out and grab her breakfast, some shitty egg dish her and Ihy enjoy. She claims to be fine with this, but he sees the way she’ll go to embrace him out of pure habit and flinches when she stops.

Digging his thumb into the ample flesh of an orange (what a delight), shoving a headache away as his eyes attempt to focus on something in tandem, he generates the conversation. “How was your day, post lunch? Your cat is well, I assume?” _Muffin_ (he’d never state this to Carter, but it’s a ridiculous name for a cat) has been around Carter’s whole life, a whopping twenty years.

His voice grows a little distant, away from the receiver of the phone. “Yep, perfect health.” Horus’ perverted old mind wants to be there to watch him change. He’s no better than a teenager. “Dinner was...interesting. Do you mind if I tell my parents about you? Are we _couple_ enough for that?”

“ _A couple,”_ he repeats, voice hitching embarrassingly loud _._ He obliterates the orange, pulp falling on his lap. Oops.

Carter immediately backpedals. “I’m sorry, forget I mentioned it-” he shushes Carter.

“I mean,” swallows the growing lump in his throat, “I told my family right away, so it doesn’t matter to me.” Horus is more interested in the fact that Carter actually _exists_. Gods and soulmates are finicky things. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice, my apologies.”

Horus grabs a dishrag and wets it, wiping down the juice that unfortunately creeps down his thigh and onto his calf. Disgusting. Now he has to shower before he gets Hathor’s breakfast (guess it’s official). Maybe if he spent more time wearing pants this wouldn’t happen.

Carter laughs quietly. “Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I didn’t notice,” he says. “We’re officially a couple? I can call you my boyfriend?” Horus hums, tossing the rag in the sink, watching house magic clean it and wring it dry. He’d prefer consort, prince consort, even; he’s a king after all, but he won’t bring it up with such a modern mortal. “Can I send you a gift?”

So that _is_ a part of modern courting. Thank gods. Does he have to send gifts to his parents as well? “Only if I can do likewise.”

“I’d like that very much.” Carter’s voice is clear once more. Horus doctors his tea up with a generous dollop of honey, headache dampened as the silver eye loses itself in the swirling liquid. “Surprise me?” he asks.

His two thousand year old wallet can be put to use. “I’ll surprise you with the best, m- Carter.” Where was he taking that? Damned thoughts will ruin him. The tea is hot in his mouth, prickling his teeth. Tea companies change every few centuries, and it irritates his old stomach to no end.

Horus glances at the stove. 03:25. “Shouldn’t you be heading to bed?” he questions.

Right as he mentions it, he hears the definitive sound of Carter sitting in his bed. It creaks. “I am. Muffin went to the vet today, so I got off work early.”

Horus doesn't like cats, but he likes Carter. “For what?”

“Ate something she shouldn’t of.”

He hums. “They aren’t the brightest of creatures, kid.” He doesn’t want to affix _kid_ to Carter. That starts a trend he doesn’t want to keep up, categorizing his soulmate the same way he does his children. A dangerous slope, and the gaping chasm of age difference doesn’t help at all.

Carter laughs. “She’s pretty smart. Met up with my dad too, got some dinner with Sadie.” He lives a simple life, and while sometimes there’s a few hours Horus can’t account for (he doesn’t mean to compartmentalize the kid’s—Carter’s life, organize it into a schedule, he does; it’s habit), he doesn’t sweat it. “And I met with my advisor, but not in that order.”

“You’re awfully busy,” Horus remarks. The tea burns his throat a little.

More shifting in the background. “Not really,” he assures. “Hey, I have a request.”

“I can probably fulfill it.”

“Aren’t you quick.”

It’s his turn to laugh, and says the weakest joke of his career. “You’ll soon come to learn I’m magic.”

Carter snickers. “I’m sure you are. Will you talk to me until I fall asleep?” he asks.

Horus spins the adjacent chair with his foot. “Like what? A story?” He’ll do whatever, mind contently settled in a happy place.

“I guess. Anything,” Carter replies. His voice is picking up that tired tilt, trying to not slur.

So, he tells him a tale about a _definitely_ fictional general and his family experiencing snow for the first time in Turkey. Maybe one day he’ll tell him a story about Egypt, the early days when he could pass for mortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao
> 
> yell at me on twitter @hectorpriamids


	16. Chapter 16

**there is no one to scold,/even when the heavens deem/the most abject of failures/receptive to correction**

Isis rises out of bed, back cracking like an old lady. Is she getting to this stage in her life? She hopes not. She has a tennis match on Tuesday. She refuses to lose it, needing some bolster to her self esteem as a newly fifty-year-old mother. That boy and his quick but dull mind. Why does Hathor get to be his sister but not her? Then she wouldn’t have to be, in the eyes of Horus’ soulmate, some fifty odd years old. A terrible number to even think about, shivering.

Drawing her robe around herself, she makes for the adjacent bathroom. She splashes cold water on her face, eyes screwed tightly shut. But it wakes her up, feet leading her further to the warm kitchen. Make her coffee and toast, sit on the small balcony for an hour before her sister rises. Living together is nice, but there is so little to take care of. She’s due for a visit to see her son anyway.

She puts on her slippers, rich blue in color, grabbing her mug, rings clicking on the side.

Jotting a note that they’re out of cinnamon butter, her hand hovers at the sound of a screech. The curtains shake.

Setting the pen down and materializing her staff, she takes a step towards the balcony doors. Isis’ ears twitch at the sound of movement behind her, but it’s only Nephthys, clutching her own staff white-knuckled.

Breaking some rules, she taps into her full self, back itching where her gossamer wings _should_ be. Power vibrates in her, and she misses the rush, the adrenaline (not that she’d ever admit to _enjoying_ battle, that’s an activity her lovely son and uncivilized gods partake in).

Nephthys steps into her sight, eyes locking. Silent understanding passes through them, and Nephthys stands off to the side, drawing the curtain back with her staff. Isis prepares a divine word at the tip of her tongue, brewing stronger with each dragged out second.

Isis quickly scans the demon from the rooster feet to his peeled face. Beady, soulless black eyes glare at her, his scrawny arm hacking away at the window. Her wonderful barrier prevents that. Face of Horror’s eyes immediately snap away from her, boring holes into her weak little sister.

Not having any of _that_.

As dignified as a goddess could be in her pajamas, Isis speaks one of her favorite words: “ _Ha-di_!” A little extreme? Perhaps. But she’s been saving so much magic inside of her, it feels nice. Face of Horror is tossed back and collapses in on himself, tossed back into the deepest parts of the Duat. What will the mortals see? Who knows, who cares. Call it a gas leak and be over with it.

Nephthys quivers in the corner of her vision as Isis banishes her staff. Draping her little sister in her robe (how mortified her husband would be if he saw what she wore to bed, thinnest of camis), she steps out onto the balcony. Waving her hand, all damage is repaired, the patio furniture righted. What an occurrence.

* * *

Anubis stares at her, a mix of abject horror and shock. “Gods, auntie, how dumb can you be?” His face immediately flushes, tripping over his words. “No, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. I redact my statement.” He draws a hand over his pale face. This is all very amusing, hiding her snickers. “What are you doing here?”

Curiosity gets the best of her as she peers around him, to the messy but organized apartment. Clothes are strategically strewn in piles by color, books by height, socks by toe color. It’s what she would expect from Seth, what she knows to expect from Seth. “Face of Horror attacked my apartment this morning. I was wondering if your father knew anything about this,” she says.

He sighs, brushing his bangs out of his face. Oddly dreamy in an ethereal way, the glittering bags set beneath his eyes and veins glow blue beneath pale skin. He kicks something out of the way before opening the door the full way. “Watch your step,” he mutters. “Company!” he calls out. Why doesn’t Anubis leave him, she wonders. Is he that hurt by the revelation still? There must be more. Isis raises smart boys.

“How is the Snake?” she asks, attempting to gain a foothold in the upcoming conversation. Her attempts fail, utterly silenced by his four inches of height and less than dressed state. She is used to shirtless men, but she knows this one extremely well. Not all of their marriages were terrible. Most times, those hands were incredibly kind to her, gifts of all varieties. Why do their unsuccessful marriages stick with her the most, besides the obvious bruises and flinching? Nephthys hates herself for the thoughts rolling around. Like the blush threatening to rise on her cheeks, she quells the intrusive thoughts with a grocery list, refusing to give him that power over her again.

Seth grins ferally. _Set_. His name is _Set_ now. “One of these days, you won’t come home, and sister and brother dearest will try to murder me once more. Maybe then we can have our Contendings, with dear, dumb Nephthys as the catalyst.”

She smiles weakly at him. “I’d like to live,” she admits. It feels nice to vocalize it. “How is the Snake?” she tries again. She’s well aware that Set is not in control of any demon armies presently. Face of Horror was the ruse to get in. “I need to see him, or rather just know how he’s doing, really.”

He snaps his fingers, donned in a fresh suit. “You heard the lady, Anubis. Get your staff!”

“Yes, I heard the lady. She’s fine with just knowing how he’s doing.” He lays a protective hand on her shoulder, drawing her back a step from the red lord. Nephthys starts to speak up but with no success.

“Seeing is believing, my dear boy. _Especially_ for a visual learner like her.”

* * *

 

It has been ages since she was this deep into the Duat. The radiation cooks her skin. She unfurls her god side more, lets it envelope her in a tight hold. She should go for a swim, after this, submerged herself in a nice, dark river for a while.

The trio passes a final ridge, which Anubis helps her down from, hands fully spanning her waist as he sets her down. They’ve been here before. Definitely. Everything repeats itself when you’re a god.

Nephthys’ vision — while not as keen as her siblings — can make out the slithering form of Apophis. His red scales bulge against the seams of his prison, a massive creature capable of following the sun whole. Each twist of a coil pulses pure Is’fet; her stomach drops with each roll. Bastest was freed. There’s nothing to keep him subdued or entertained. Embracing her godliness fully, she takes another step forward, still a decent thousand feet from the chaos lord. “When will he-?” her voice quivers as she asks. The thought is terrifying: Re swallowed, out of shape Horus swallowed, Isis crushed, the world plunged into ice. Her heart leaps in fear at the concept, constricting in her chest.

Seth shrugs, hands out to the side. “Five years. I’m trying my best to slow him down, so six if I get lucky. If he gets to kill you, where’s the enjoyment for me, you feel?”

She nods dumbly. She’s well aware of her ex-husband’s intentions. “You are doing this yourself?” she asks. By _yourself_ she means the two of them, to which Anubis glumly nods. She poses the question of getting Horus involved, but stops herself, knowing very well that will make her leave with a black eye. “Do the Nomes know?”

He snorts. “You think they care? They’ll let us hash it out and claim the glory at the end. Mortals _need_ gods to battle Apophis, but _you_ try telling them that.” She can’t recall the last time she spoke to a member of the Per Ankh. That was always left to the lord and lady of the house.

Apophis interrupts their conversation with a bellow that shakes the ground. Set howls, suit morphing into armor. “Well, look who decided to wake up!”

Anubis grabs her; his head flickers between man and jackal. “Run home to Isis, tell her this. We can’t do this alone.” A chaste kiss to her brow, and he’s gone, leaving her bewildered in the boys’ apartment.


	17. Chapter 17

**the silence inside/the photograph/of you eating alone/in an old yearbook./this is going to be over/before you know it**.

Ihy has picked up on his stare. He’s proud of how firmly he’s staring at him, his soft eyes hardening with quiet, seven-year old fury. It’s cuter than it is intimidating and his reason to anger is quite stupid.

“...you need a haircut. Wasn’t Hathor suppose to take you for one?” Horus can hear her sweet snickers from the bedroom. He can easily envision her pausing reading to listen in. It’s what she does. The lady of the house must know all (is she still the lady of the house if they’re ‘unmarried’? no other woman in this home, so likely).

The child has been nothing but troublesome since discovering Carter. Horus always known Ihy’s ruse of disliking him was a farce. His insufferable attitude since becoming his _nephew_ makes Horus grateful for being an only child (technicalities aside).

“We went shopping instead,” he replies. “I got a new coat. Not that you care,” he grumbles.

Horus cocks his head towards Ihy. “I care about your shopping habits as much as I did in Egypt, so not very much.” He never cared about that, trusting the queen in the market in more than he should have. They were safe, he could oversee his whole kingdom, after all. Young wife with a deep, personal coffer, sprawled on his lap, soft hand on his cheek, quietly mentioning all the things she had bought that day. But he was even younger then and not yet capable of handling the _allures_ of women. He spent at least a hundred years in a honeymoon period, ensnared by his closest friend and wife. Ihy took far more getting use to, a child god who acted his age for the most part, where Horus was used to grown sons only interested in him because of their new mother. Ihy wanted nothing to do with him for fifty years.

Part of him wishes Hathor hadn’t so quickly resigned herself to his sister.

But the Kane is awfully lovable.

Ihy crosses his arms over his chest. He only weighs twenty kilograms, light as air. “Be grateful Momma still likes you,” he threatens emptily. One, Ihy could never muster the physical or emotional strength to harm him. Two, Hathor wouldn’t allow that. “Why don’t you get your own place, if you don’t care about u- her anymore?”

“Because I do care, and someone has to pick you up for lunch.”

“You’re an a- _ah_!” He’s swept up by Hathor before he can finish his thought (not that he needed to). Ihy’s face flushes, gaping at his mother.

She presses her brow to his. “Why don’t we get you to bed? It is late, and you have school tomorrow, plus lunch with my friends.” Hathor casts a glance at him, hauling Ihy up so he can wrap his arms around her neck. Body language is not his forte, but he can guess, as she hauls Ihy to his own room.

* * *

 

Carter calls. The sound of Ihy’s bath protests grow louder.

“Hello,” Horus says, stepping outside. No need for Carter to hear his howling nephew/son. “Are you alright?” The call is a half hour early, and there’s more rustling on Carter’s end than usual. He doesn’t particularly care.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Carter asks.

“No, not at all,” he replies. “Keep talking, dear.” Lights adorn the city and he wonders how anyone sleeps like this.

Carter takes a breath. Is that his sister in the background? A distinctly feminine yet gruff voice demanding to know _where the hell is the butter_. “I don’t mean to spring this on you, but what are you doing the…” he trails off, more paper rustling, “...the fourteenth of November.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Nothing.” He briefly considers who will pick Ihy up from school and go shopping with Hathor, but remembers he has an aunt desperate to please. They handled themselves fine without him during his one hundred year nap.

The door opens, Hathor stepping out beside him. She’s easily chilled, blanket wrapped around herself. “Is that Carter?” she asks, tucking her feet beneath her as she sits on the ground. An odd sheen gleans over her eyes, more vacant than he’s accustomed to. There’s a perfectly good chair, but he watches her wrap her arms around her knees and hides her face. That’s why. He wasn’t meant to see the change in her appearance.

Horus sits beside his wife/sister (it took him how many centuries to get one of those?), she leans into him and Carter starts talking again. “Oh, okay. Well, would you-I know we haven’t spoken in person since we met but the museum my father works for is holding a gala and I was wondering if you would come? As my date, obviously.”

“Why, listen to you ramble. Yes, that would be nice.” Hathor, the little helper she is, slaps his knee backhanded.

“Invite him over sooner,” she whispers, “I’d like to meet the boy.”

He figures it can’t hurt to ask. “Not to be presumptuous, my lov-” old habits die hard, “not to be presumptuous, _Carter_ , would be able to see each other beforehand? My sister is dying to meet you.” Lying is hard, and it’s best for him to spew the truth, before Ma’at gets upset with him, and turns his stomach into a broiling mess.

Carter laughs, Horus contemplates falling in love with his soulmate. What a simple man he is, heart fluttering at the sound of his voice. “I’d like that. Does October work?” he asks. The god says that yes, it does. “And Horus?”

The soft cheek of Hathor on his bare shoulder, her eyes drooping into false sleep. “Yes?”

“You can call me _your love_ , if you want.” So he caught that anyway. It’s not embarrassing. Not at all. The idiotic blush that climbs his face says elsewise, and he hates it all.

* * *

 

Hathor’s false sleep turns into a real one. He lets the queen-mother use his thigh as a pillow, and he notices but says nothing about the frown lines marring her skin. She has a few hours before Carter wakes up; his fingers gently wind in her hair. Hathor must be tired to fall into slumber so easily, never resting so quickly in their younger years. He hates to imagine that they’re feeling their age, likely just in need of a recharge. Will she still take him to Dendara? Who knows. Mother probably does.

She stirs around midnight, rolling on her back. Her impromptu nap has left her as pristine as usual. The best part is her slight flush as she realizes where she is, covering her face with her hands. Together for four thousand years, and this is what gets to her. “You’re a ridiculous woman,” he says fondly.

“Oh, shut up.” Hathor smiles. “What’s going on in November?” she asks. He can see ideas storming in her head, but never knows whether to fear them or not.

“His father’s work is hosting a gala,” whatever the hell that is, “and he invited me.”

Hathor’s smile grows in disbelief. He knows this woman quite well by now. “You agreed to go to a formal event, my gods. You know you have to wear a suit to galas?” He hasn’t touched a suit since England, and he hated them all. Too restricting, too hot. But Hathor always said he looked nice in them, her deft fingers doing the knot of his tie. “And before you ask, yes, we have to get you a new one. You’ve lost weight, and your suits are terribly dated.”

He shakes his head. “Are we following tradition of you tailoring the suits?”

“Definitely.” She wraps her blanket tighter around herself, and if he had a coat to give he would. “Would you care to know why your son hates you so much?”

Horus blinks a few times at the sudden topic change. “I guess.” He has to live with the brat. “There’s a reason?”

She nods. “A petty reason. He fears without your claim on him as his father, one of your other _wonderful_ children will make due on their promises to eat him. And he got use to being an only child, and refuses to listen to reason that you will still pay him mind, despite Carter’s existence.”

“...he thinks I will abandon him in favor of a mortal?” is all that he got out of that. Ihy is too scrappy of a — hesitates to call him fighter — survivalist to fall easily to one of his sons. He’s never left alone either, and none of the boys would raise a hand to Hathor. One, she’d win, and two, they must have some sense of honor. But he hasn’t seen his children since Egypt, and wouldn’t know.

Hathor says swiftly, “Basically. When Carter comes to visit, we should send the boy to your mother’s. Weak as he may be, I’m sure he could at _least_ hurt a mortal.”

Horus rests his head on the door to their kitchen. Watching the street from the third floor is entertaining. Enhanced vision and all. “Is it worth apologizing to him?” His family is all he has, soulmate be damned, and he wants all of them to be happy. It was that way five thousand years ago, and it will be that way for the foreseeable future. He bought Isis a set of golden jewelry in the first century for raising his voice (a kind way of putting it, he broke a dining room set).

“For what? You haven’t done anything wrong. I doubt he’ll listen regardless.” Hathor shifts, her back arching off the ground. “...and in a way he’s afraid you never actually loved us. Which is ridiculous, and he doesn’t seem to hear the fact that _I’m_ the one pushing you towards Carter. You’d stay with me anyway, we both know that.

“He’s also a child. An immortal child, but a child. We all went through our _I hate my parents_ phase. It’s common, when you live this long.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Cutting your mother’s head off doesn’t count as hating her?” Hathor laughs. A lovely sound, one to shake kings to their cores, but it doesn’t get to him like Carter’s does.

Horus huffs. “It was a weird time for all of us.” Eyeless, handless, almost wifeless. “You know the boy better than I do. When will he calm down?” He picks at his cuticles, how worn and pushed back they’ve become.

She thinks for a moment. “Either he’ll wake from a nap calmed or it’s a fifty year grudge. He’s unpredictable.” His phone vibrates and Hathor sits up, smoothing the back of her head. “That’s an odd feeling,” she mutters.

It’s habit, kissing her head. “Sorry, dear woman.”

**Carter (00:14AM)**

Sorry, I forgot to ask. My sister wants your phone number, for whatever reason.

He can imagine a reason. He knows nothing about the little Kane besides his lockscreen, which he stares at for a minute. Carter is handsome and lovely in no way a mortal should ever be. What’s the worst that could happen?

**Horus (00:16AM)**

That’s fine. Shouldn’t you be asleep?

“You are as ridiculous as your son,” Hathor says, catching what he’s staring at. Her phone is more family oriented, the latest picture of her small son gracing her screen.

**Carter (00:17AM)**

She woke me up to ask you.

Goodnight, again.

**Horus (00:18AM)**

Goodnight. Sleep well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did this hit over 100 hits


	18. Chapter 18

**i have put enormous energy into trying to convince you i’m fine and/i’m just about there, no?**

    Isis hoists Ihy up on her hip. He doesn’t pout, which Hathor finds impressive. “Look at how cute you’ve become! Your cheeks are as round as your father’s at this age,” she laughs, tapping his nose. “How it warms my heart, small son,” she cooes. Isis is incredibly sweet, better with children than she’s ever let on.

    Horus has already wandered away to put Ihy’s bag in the guest room. It was incredibly sweet to watch him tuck Ihy’s little toy lamb in the bag when he wasn’t looking. He bought him pastries for breakfast, gently chucking him, with the boy on his lap in a cafe. Ihy didn’t budge, quiet and unmoving.

“Thanks, grandma,” he says, polite. . He hides his face against her shoulder, tired from their flight and embarrassed. 

Isis kisses his head. This is the most affection she’s seen Isis don to the real youngest. “So nice of you three to visit. Will you and Horus be staying for dinner?” she asks.

Hathor nods. “That’s our intentions. We’ll be gone by the morning.” The sound of another door opening, Horus checking in on his aunt. It’s only seven a.m., and Nephthys hasn’t woken up yet. They’re on very odd schedules. “...Horus’ soulmate is visiting tomorrow.”

She smiles. “I’m going to pester him, he’s told me _nothing_ . My son has a soulmate and he won’t tell his own mother.” Hathor’s eyes wander to the feathers on Isis’ wrist. Even while her father reigned as king, and the Demon Day children waltzed around the palace, pre any plans to overthrow Re (the young Horus’ small, chubby hands fisted in his mother’s dress), she never _met_ Osiris. She saw him in passing, an incredibly tall man a rich blue, but never spoke. Then, well, he died, and never got the chance. She declined her husband’s offers to attend family dinners, contempt towards Isis fresh in her heart (but never to Horus’, blinded by love and the thought that _He wouldn’t_ actually _do it himself_ ).

Hathor doesn’t have her own soulmate lined up, but a goddess of love should understand it. “You know how dearly he holds things to his heart. Give him time.” Her heart twists with a relish at having a piece of Horus that his mother doesn’t. Insanely perverse. She would never condone his relationship with his mother — they only had each other for the longest of times — but when only two pieces of your husband are _yours_ , it hurts.

Her gaze moves from the goddess’s wrist to Ihy’s sweet, sleeping face. “Do you mind if I put him down?”

    Horus promises his mother they’ll be back in a week, kisses to all of his sisters.

Now, like their lives detail, they’re waiting in the airport lobby. Horus bounces his foot, heel restless. Hathor lays a gentle hand on his thigh, tries to calm him, or at least get him to focus. “What are you thinking about, my love?” she asks. People mill around, leaning over the departure counter, gesticulating wildly, vivid accents tickling her ears. Mortals are an odd sort. Give it another two thousand years and she’ll catch on.

“What if I fuck things up?” The foul language doesn’t fit him. “Mortals are such...delicate things. Soulmates are terrible,” he grumbles, putting his head in his hands. He’s a kind man but he doesn’t realize it.

Hathor frowns. “I miss you being a cocky little shit. You swept me off of my feet quite easily, and I’m not easily swept.”

“I’m too exhausted to be cocky,” he grumbles. She won’t mention him sleeping. Sleep is how he ended up drained. But he needs a _mental_ rest. She’d crawl into bed with him on occasion, beside him and the dead sleep of his Duat body too. Crawling beneath his arm, stroking his cheek, marveling at the way his magic kept him healthy. Years of conquest caught up to him. “I can’t imagine courting him like I did you. He seems so...not fragile, but everything I do startles him. I question him about his day or compliment him and he needs a moment to catch up.”

She’s seen photos of Horus’ soulmate and he is _quite_ handsomely adorable (she would never mention it outright for fear of provoking the possessive side of her husband). “Maybe you’re his first,” she offers, and snickers at the muffled growl. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Devil woman,” he says. “Please don’t talk like that when he’s visiting. Can we have sex one more time?” he deadpans. Horus smiles at her, golden eyes shifting with playful lust. She has seen that look before, a king back from council and interested only in her.

“No, you have a _boyfriend_. Did what you did before you had a wife,” she teases. “We’ll talk about your courting attempts later. We need to go shopping when we get home. Fresh produce and the like.”

* * *

 

When meeting up with Set, she always makes sure it is far from their home. Plus, Ihy is here, and he’s easily startled. She doesn’t need him running his mouth to his father that Set is in her life.  How has she hidden so much from their sun? It doesn’t matter.

    Her pulse beats rapidly. There’s no Anubis today, just the lord of chaos and the dagger handle in his belt. Please no demon attacks today. “Where’s the boy?” she asks.

“He’s on a date,” Set replies. “The boy found someone who will tolerate him.” She doesn’t imagine that’s hard; Anubis is soft spoken when he thinks through what he says. A few times he’s shocked her with the vitriol he’s spewed towards Horus (and before he knew the truth, towards Set), but any other time his words are carefully minced.

“I see.” The skies are clear of both clouds and sun, crystal blue. Isis’ one request if she was going to continue seeing him: public spaces, and to never accept his offers to bring her anywhere. _That’s how you end up not coming home, or looking like you use to_. It’s a little ridiculous, she can run, but the babbling of the river behinds her that she heeded her sister’s words. Dying would pain her siblings for a few days, after all. (granted, if set went on the offense to her, his secret name from her lips would slow him; he cared about her at a time.)

Set shakes his head, manic smile finding its home on his unfortunately handsome face. “The snake is tightly contained. The boy and I went to see him last week, and he’s in a slumber of sorts. I tried to rile him up, called him a few choice words, but he wouldn’t respond.” He digs in his pocket, and she fears it’s another demon finger, but it’s not, a small velvet box instead. “I’d like to make an offer, sister.” No epithet attached to it. At least she won’t die. She imagines his last words to her will consist of _treacherous_ , or _bitch_. Maybe both.

“And what is that?” she asks. Everything will be checked with Isis.

The park becomes deafening for a moment, and his unoccupied hand grabs her and pulls her away from the hoard of joggers. The smile has turned to a sneer, a low grumble of, “Gods, you’re useless.” Her face flushes in shame, and she thanks father Geb they are no longer the same height, and it’s easier to hide from him.

“I would have realized,” she mumbles. Stop getting lost in your thoughts, she chides herself before realizing she’s doing it again. Focus maybe on how close you are to your ex husband and how easily his hand could crush your ribs. Her heart beats faster, zoned in on the here and now. “What’s your proposal?” she asks again, attempting to step away, but the hold is harsh.

The box presses against her, his large fingers spanning the width of her neck easily too. Oh, gods, this _is_ the day. “I think that’s the only reason the other two keep you around. You’ve no desire to survive. You should be dead by now.”

She _knows_ that, but hearing it out of this man’s mouth curdles her blood. “I survived a marriage with you. Tell me your offer so I can leave.” He tilts her head up, and she knows Set far too well. There’s a thousand things coursing through his red eyes. Years ago she could have read him like a book, but today she stumbles through as if it’s braille. Anger, like always, a hint of regret. What’s next? Sorrow mixed with joy? Small hint of lust? Gods, she hopes she’s wrong.

“The box holds a ring. Your first wedding band, actually.” He _kept it_ . “Contains magic from the first dynasty, a nice little conduit for all I would give you,” their marriage was kind in the first set of kings, when he ruled over the upper parts of Egypt, “but enough about our marriage. I’m giving this to you so I can contact you whenever I want. I _hate_ cell phones.”

Nephthys narrows her gaze at him. “And let me guess, you can track me with this?” she accuses, shocked by how much force are in her words.

He actually looks _offended_ , but she chalks it up to his acting skills. “Never. If I’m- _when_ I’m going to kill all of you, it will be a fair fight. I don’t care where any of you live. Take the damn ring. What if something happens with the snake between our meetings?”

“It would be difficult to miss the snake escaping.”

Set _growls_ . She feels it intimately in her chest, and his hold on her tightens, before it immediately relaxes. “Take it, you idiot woman.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, shoving the box in her pockets. Far, _far_ too close for any comfort, and she twists in his grasp, but even the adrenaline isn’t enough for her to break free. He’s a bit of a gentleman, she guesses. as his hand doesn’t linger in her back pocket and goes back to her neck. “I’m only trying to help you and your stupid cattails out.”

“What do my cattails have to do with anything?” And he’s a terrible man for stirring feelings inside of her. Not all times were terrible, only the times she remembers easiest.

Bluntly, “I wish they didn’t exist. You should have belonged to me.”

She frowns. “ _Soulmate_ does not mean I belong to you. I am a god, not property.”

“Your only ability is to look good. Gods have a _purpose_ , and your purpose should have been as my wife. You could have ruled beside me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

This is uncomfortable.

She looks away. “I could not have sat by you while my sister and nephew suffered.”

He snorts, “I would have kept them alive for you. Not healthy, but alive.” His fingers yank her hair down, snaring tightly in the locks. “I did love you, you know.” Her head is angled up again, and his mouth is far too close to hers. She is not above cheap shots, she reminds herself.

“Stop,” she says. And, to her surprise, he does, stepping back. Already she can feel the bruises coming. “I’ll see you next week.” 

“Nephthys, wait-” his voice is strained.

“Next week, Seth.”

* * *

 

    Nephthys collapses on her couch. “ _Isis!_ ” she calls. “Please slap some sense into me.” Who knew her voice could get this loud.

    Her sister appears, littlest nephew on her hip.  “I’m glad you’re home. I was getting worried.” Ihy yanks on her shirt and points at Nephthys’ neck. His golden eyes are intense. “You have to be fucking kidding me.” Across the distance, sitting down beside her. “Show me your waist. Now.” Youngest nephew scrambles off her lap and perches on the back of the couch. For not being a bird god, he does the act quite well.

    She takes her shirt off, sitting before her sister in her pants and bra. Right before her pant line starts the cattails, and just above it are the patterns of bruises in the shape of his hand. She explains everything to Isis (besides the fact that she doesn’t matter) as her sister waves warm healing magic over her, bruises yellowing and all together disappearing. Both gods present frown at her, worry lines deep on Isis’ face. 

    She pulls the ring out, opening the box. Gold inset with rubies that twinkle in the light. Isis recognizes it, gasping slightly. “Give it to me,” she demands, and Nephthys complies. Her sister taps the ring with a magic infused finger, and it doesn’t spark with the red of Set’s magic, but rather the Nile green glyphs that belong to Nephthys. Isis squints at the ring, swatting Ihy’s curious hand away. “There’s nothing in here,” she says, confused. “Don’t tell me this is the one time the bastard is true.”

    Nephthys shrugs. “I don’t know.”

    “You’re not going to see him again,” Isis declares, hint of queen in her voice, but mostly concerned sister. As soon as Nephthys opens her mouth she is shushed. “I’m serious. You go, and brother dearest goes with you.” Their loveliest sun is also their biggest threat to one another.

    “He won’t tell me anything if brother comes. He only acted like this because Anubis wasn’t there, I promise you.”

    Isis puts the ring away in it’s box. “I don’t see why you still see him. We know about the snake, and now your ex’s intentions to re-bed you. More than enough if you ask me.”


	19. Chapter 19

**and time yet for a hundred indecisions,/and for a hundred visions and revisions,/before the taking of a toast and tea**

Hathor is always right, and it’s starting to piss him off. But not really. Being and staying pissed off at Hathor are two difficult things he’s yet to master.

Cockiness _would_ solve a lot of his problems. Where is this skittishness stemming from? It’s only a mortal, an incredibly important one ( _soulmate!_ ) but a mortal. A few thousand years ago and this wouldn’t have been an issue. He could have swept him and dazzled with the wealth the palace had to offer, taught him swordplay or anything to that degree. Horus could have showcased his skills in an era where they made sense. His skill set consists of war and...what? Ruining things with his sons? 

He probably shouldn’t mention to Carter that he has five sons at the age of _twenty-eight_. He hates the number.

A bit preemptively, he’s waiting three hours early in the train station. He left to clear his head — that’s working _so well_ — and to leave Hathor to cooking dinner, intending to see how deep he could wander into Paris. He’s only seen Ihy’s school, Hathor’s works, and frequented markets. They’ve lived here for almost thirty years. It’s due time he became familiar with the streets. There’s a large mind/body disconnect, and here he is.

Waiting.

Carter’s sister had sent him a photo two hours ago, her typical secret-but-not-blurry snap of Carter. It was nice, and gods how he is starting to adore that blue button up. He gave his thanks (his chats with Sadie consist of photo-thank you-photo-thank you). She responded for once, close to full text.

**Younger Kane (09:23AM):**

hurt my brother & i personally come to baguette land to kick your ass

**Younger Kane (09:23AM):**

idc how swole you allegedly are

**Horus (09:25AM):**

we’re both speaking english but i have no idea what you’re saying.

**Younger Kane (09:28AM):**

g o o d

After that, he stopped replying.

* * *

 

Hathor claims that there’s no real difference between courting men or women. He trusts her advice, goddess of love after all, yet he can’t help but find fault in that. The differences between men and women are astounding. Mother is nothing like Father. Hathor is a stark contrast compared to _her_ father. 

He’s not that experienced with courting, he realizes. He’s had Hathor, who really pursued him first, and his first wife Serqet, who was more a marriage of need, borderline arranged. He knows how to treat a wife, neither complained (not that Serqet had coherent thoughts often) but that’s in marriage. Premarriage? Flirt at Hathor during the most inappropriate of moments, having her take pity on a blind man and danced naked for him beneath the sycamore.

Hathor claims she cradled robbed him. He should have _experienced_ the world before snaring him in her bed (she’ll also immediately turn around and claim that he does belong to her). That maybe the reason he’s having issues conceiving his soulmate and the idea of falling in love is that he’s too devoted to her. And he lied about never a wandering eye; his gaze went to other girls are often as Hathor’s did.

 _Or maybe_ , Hathor supplies, _you’re not into guys_ . _Into your_ soulmate _, yes, but that’s it._  

He is _very_ into Carter. He’s absolutely adorable, from just about everything. Maybe it’s the soulmate factor highlighting the appealing parts of Carter. He’s young, and if he had time, he would have gotten his hands on him by now. Hathor occasionally drones on about how _revitalised_ such a young soulmate will make him. 

She’s a terrible woman, and he’s as bad for thinking likewise.

Another hour.

Horus _has_ grown a few centimeters, thankfully. He has to peer down at Carter now, as opposed to glancing up to him. He grins at him, and Carter asks first, “Is it appropriate to hug you?”

“Yes.” Carter is much slimmer than any woman, no broad hips, and his hand can touch his opposite elbow. He rests an open palm on his back where skin is tattooed with a matching mark. Is it too forwarded to ask to see it again? Verify it all? But his mind, old magic locked away, starts to lash out at him, begging to take the mortal/soulmate into his protection.

His nose juts into Horus’ jawline. His bag presses the god’s thigh. “Nice to see you again,” he says, voice as flat as when they talk on the phone. His nose itches, and in a deep inhale, he’s hit by a whiff of magic. It’s underwhelming but there. An old bloodline, perhaps, power latent and forgotten. He breathes again, and the taste of magic is undeniable, tickling his tongue. _Delectable_ . The magic is pushing the same age as Horus, and there his mind goes again, screaming _Claim him._ Carter reeks of another god, something feline. A house god, perhaps? He draws Carter a little tighter, and the kid’s draw back brings him out of his mind.

“I have that effect on people,” he replies. “How was your trip?”

Carter shrugs. “It was alright. Lot of sitting.” 

Horus drags his thumb over his back. Faint nudge of his spine. “My apartment is an okay walk.”

The little soulmate straightens up. “You said your sister is there?” he asks. Horus hums, and presses a kiss to his forehead. Carter stiffens, and here he is, ruining things with the mortal already, but then he kisses back quickly to his cheek. Thank gods.

He nods. “She’s dying to meet you,” he says.

* * *

 

Hathor and Carter get along well, thankfully. He could never pick, falling for Carter dangerously fast. They sit on the same side of the couch, and he stretches his arm out behind Carter. He’s naturally possessive, and the kid has his own quirk, legs crossed with a preference for Horus.

Kiss him right. Hathor encouraged it before he left in the morning. _‘He’s already claimed you as his boyfriend. Go at his pace, but claim him in your way too.’_

Hathor looks lovely as usual (Carter stuttered and blushed upon seeing her when they arrived, a shaking laugh as she yanked him into a tight hug). A casual dress, knees tucked beneath herself, asking Carter a slew of questions. What he does for a living, what his family dynamic is like, simple, basic questions that he answers quickly and efficiently.

His sister-wife glances down at her cup. They have different tastes in tea. White teas for the wife. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need a refill. Anyone else?”

No one bites, and she’s gone to the kitchen in a few steps.

Carter twists to look at him. Horus grins, “I did not know her plans of interrogating you.” A few centimeters make the difference, the back of his neck easily reachable by Horus’ insistent grabbing; he got a photo from Sadie Kane the day after a haircut, curly hair trimmed close to his neck but great nonetheless. He’d play with it now, but he doesn’t want to ruin things with his soulmate.

He shrugs. “I get it, you’re the baby of the family, right? She’s worried about you.” _Baby of the family._ It’s always been that way, but not in the sense of being treated as it, minus as a joke by his actual sisters. Carter has a younger sister though — the baby of the Kane family — and he guesses that’s where it’s coming from.

“I _guess_. If Hathor makes you uncomfortable at any moment, you can tell her to step off. She’ll listen.”

Carter pats his thigh. “Alright. Fair warning, when you meet _my_ sister, she’s a little intense. At some point she’ll talk about taking you out back and fighting you. Edgy teenager and all that.”

He laughs, squeezing Carter’s hand. “She already has, sans the out back part.” 

“Are you serious,” he deadpans. “Glad _that’s_ out of the way,” he says, rolling his eyes. He thought Carter and his sister, the infamous Sadie Kane, would be similar, but now he’s not so sure. Hints of sass in both of them, but the other Kane, thus far, seems far more outright than his. _His_ Kane. He’s fine with the thought. His soulmate, his Kane. “Everyone else in my family is sane, I promise.”

“I don’t. My aunt and mother have a weird set of...traits.”

Carter shakes his head softly. “If they raised you I’m sure they’re great women.” The quickest way to his heart, complimenting him and the women he loves heart and soul in one go. Carter could have wrangled in praise for his son and Horus would be completely in love.

Thankfully, before his thoughts get mushier, Hathor calls for him from the kitchen. “Excuse me, right back.”

«Does the boy speak French?» Hathor asks, dipping into said language. 

«Only English, my love.» He eyes the unopened bottle of wine, and pops the cork with his bare hand. For the sake of Hathor he pours it in a mug. «What’s wrong?»

 _She_ gets to drink it from the bottle. «He’s a lovely boy. I can see why this idiotic soulmate force put you two together. You’re already acting like you’re three thousand again.» She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. «What if I left for a few hours?» Little cheshire cat smile.

He cocks his head. «I don’t know. You’re not trying to get me laid, are you? This is only the second time I’ve _actually_ seen him.»  

Hathor pats his cheek. «One of my many sixth senses, dear. Get a little physical.»

That he is fine with. «I will never understand your insistence on this,» he says quietly. «Maybe that’s for the best, knowing you.» He kisses her head. «Where are you going, between you and me?» He needs to know she’s _okay_ and safe, demons lurking out there, and Hathor is a pacifist by nature.

«A surprise. I’ll be safe.»

«Be home by morning.»

Hathor hands him a glass of not-wine, pushing him into the living room once more. Wonderful actress, or at least _old_. Carter smiles at them. “You have my apologies, Carter, but something’s come up at work, and I need to go check on it. It was nice meeting you.”

Horus sits, and Carter stands, a polite young man. “The pleasure was all mine, Hathor. I hope we can do this again.” The love of his life hugs the universe’s idea of his love. His life and the universe are correct. Hathor gives Horus a final kiss on the cheek, and she’s gone quietly.

“Can I admit something?” Carter asks,

He shrugs, casually putting his arm around the kid as he sits again. “Go ahead.”

His cheeks darken some. “She isn’t my type, don’t think that’s what I’m saying, but your sister is a bit hot.” Horus immediately reminds himself that Hathor isn’t his wife presently. She’s _single_ , and not his to get upset over.

Instead, he laughs. “I’ve heard that all my life,” which isn’t a lie at all. “I think I’d be more upset if you didn’t find her somewhat attractive.” Arm candy, after all. The most beautiful woman Kemet and it’s gods had to offered married to _him_.

“You’re ridiculous...can I put my feet up?”

“Take your shoes off, yes.”

Carter slides them off,  feet clad in black socks. A simple kid. “Wait, sorry, are you okay with this?” he asks. “I’m not moving too fast, am I?” Horus pats his leg, perhaps a bit too roughly, Carter startling, and he poses an apology on his tongue but the kid does that laugh again and leans into him.

Horus kisses the top of his head, arm snug around his shoulder. How easily the mortal could be dragged on his lap. “Do tell me if _I_ push _your_ boundaries. You’re, what, twenty-one?” _Only_ twenty-one, not a god pretending to be that tender. He can’t remember his first hundred years, let alone a fifth of a century. _Young_. Old laws forbid it all, and Ma’at is unhappy enough. Gods and mortals don’t consort.

He stretches against him, feet tucked into the corner. “And you’re twenty-eight. When’s your birthday?” he asks.

“The twenty-eighth of December.” Carter’s amazingly lithe body manages to twist in his arm. “What?” Horus asks. His eyes are sweeter than his smile.

“You’re a Christmas baby with gold and silver eyes. It’s funny, makes you a bit more handsome too.”

Gold and silver.

Glamoured silver, unfocused pupil sitting dead.

A fluke. It must be. His hearing is going.

Horus hums, cocking his head a tad. “Come again, dear?”

Carter sits up, tapping his cheek (his hand remains there). “Your eyes, Horus. They’re nice. Heterochromia, yeah?” Carter smells of magic and can see through glamours. Uncomfortable. _How_. A gift given by how old his blood is? Hathor would have noticed the second they shook hands. This is making his head hurt.

He nods again. “Yes, yes, of course.” His hand settles on his hip. Horus cannot just out himself, and talking about magic is the surest way to do that. God/mortal is forbidden, but the grief if Carter is a _magician_. The House would riot. It has to be old blood and nothing more. He hasn’t caught a glance of Ma’at tattooed on the kid’s tongue or hints of sulfur that accompany magic usage.

“Carter?” he asks, other hand resting on his waist. _Kane_ does sound familiar of a name. He’ll write it all out when the kid leaves, talk to his magically gifted mother. Perhaps he’s only paranoid. “Forgive my forwardness.”  He swings himself over Carter’s lap, ignoring the pop in his thigh. Damned body. He should be able to figure it out. Never as adept as the women, but seeking out magic is a skill for any god. The kid is adorable and makes his heart pound, but a _magician_ does not get his love. Anything to do with the Per Ankh needs to be washed in fire.

“No, it’s fine,” Carter swallows. He has no idea what’s happening, but he’s cute and _trusting_ . He, maybe, could be one part of Per Ankh to survive. He doubts any of Carter’s opinions are _his_ , but rather the balderdash the House feeds him.

Horus nuzzles his cheek. “You’re precious, has anyone ever told you that?” He taps his brow to Carter’s. Letting his magic run rampant — which feels _amazing_ , having had it confined for all these years — he searches for any indication of magician. He has to dig around to figure out what those are again — he hasn’t bothered with mortal magicians since his last time at Dendara. The stench, yes, and if the blood is right, call to be hosted. Oh, _please_ let Carter be hostable, just to shove it in Iskander’s face.

He pushes his magic rougher. He meets a wall. A normal mortal should not have barriers in his head. Carter Kane can see through glamours and smells like magic and has barriers against it. Non-mortal. Enhanced senses, maybe? Nothing else about him says magician. 

Carter grabs his hip, yanking his head to stare at him with furrowed brow. “Are you going to kiss me or not?” His chest heaves, Horus is gently shoved out, an even tighter barrier erected coupled with a tense smile. “Least I assumed that’s why you got on my lap.”

 _What are you?_ he wants to ask. “It would be a bonus, yes. Would you like to?” Boxes his godself away once more, lacing his fingers with Carter’s on his hip.

The kid nods. “Sort of.”


	20. Chapter 20

**the hedgerow bloomed with flowers still,/no withered petals lay beneath;/ but the wild roses in your wreath/were faded, and the leaves were brown.**

Horus contemplates the downsides of booking an early flight — time zones suck, he doesn’t get breakfast, it’s chilly, no one to see him off — but it’s all remedied by Carter’s drowsy hug that’s more of him cuddling (and no one talked to him on the flight). He wraps his arm around his waist, kissing his temple. “You seem tired,” Horus comments. “You didn’t have to come get me so quickly.”

    “ ‘m fine,” he says. “I couldn’t abandon you at the airport. You have everything?” Carter asks. The kid isn’t wearing a coat, and it’s biting out for only November. Mortals are an odd thing. He gives him his coat, draping it over his shoulders. He’ll be fine, physically, and he’d rather have the kid comfortable. “Thanks,” he smiles, bolstering himself on his toes for a quick kiss. Proper.

    Precious. “Of course. You’re my—“ he stops himself. Mortals don’t have households anymore, and being in the care of another isn’t common practice.

Carter perks up. “I’m your what?”

“My sweetheart.” Horus grabs his bag, puffs a breath of air over his ear playfully. Carter laughs and recoils, and Horus, ever the opportunist, expertly links their fingers together. “But you knew that already.”

He yanks on his hand. “I guess I am. Are you good to go?” he asks.

Horus shrugs. Personally, he could go for a rest (not a nap, but a moment to catch up), but the mortal is younger, alive. “Yes. Lead the way, dear.”

    Carter’s cat is familiar. It’s hateful gaze bores into him, tail whipping against the wall. He ignores it, temporarily, more focused on slipping his hands beneath his own coat, spanning the entirety of his waist. “Miss me?” he teases, Carter’s hands tucking into his pantline.

“A little,” he admits. “Kiss me again.” Gladly obliges him, mouth to mouth, pulling him up to strain his neck less. _Not_ the best kisser, sloppy, but Carter has a certain spark to make up for it, along with enthusiasm. Teach him a thing or two, butterfly kisses over his jaw, listening to his perfect giggles. “That tickles.”

Horus hums. “Good.” He moves higher, around the shell of his ear, through his hair. Carter ducks away, more laughs, and he follows, intercepting and nipping his jaw. A little gasp, and he easily drags him tighter, the dip of his waist a good handheld. “Ticklish little thing, aren’t you?” he teases. 

“Stand up a little straighter. Less you want picked up.”

“You can’t pick me up,” he stutters. Carter’s _probably_ around seventy kilograms. _Nothing_ . He regretfully lets go of his waist, playful hand on his ass. “ _Horus_ ,” he hisses, beautiful noise. He can’t spoil him the way he’s accustomed to, but this will do. Feat of strength and wealth.

“Want to bet?”

He doesn’t get the chance to show off, cat’s fangs deep in his calf. Mighty impressive for a mortal cat to bite through the skin of a god, except when he turns to gaze angrily at it and rightfully punt it across the room, he recognizes its sickly green eyes as Bastet. _Fucking great._

“Muffin!” Carter yells, and the cat scampers off, bounding into an adjacent room. “I’m sorry, she’s never done that before. Are you okay?” he asks breathy.

He’s looking at where Bastet has run off to. “I’m fine, baby,” he mutters. Smells like magic and has Bastet as a house god. How convenient. He feels the fang marks stitching up already. Least he has that. “Great, baby.” He kisses him again, lingering on the top of his head. ( _Horus accidentally called him_ baby _on the phone without thinking; Carter stopped him and said, “that was different.”_ _Oblivious to what he did, horus wiggled in a, “different how?” almost immediately, “it sounds nice, when you call me baby.”_ )

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Carter makes some distance between them. “Wasn’t I taller than you in Dendara?” he asks, looking _up_ at him. A satisfying feeling, after being short the past few centuries.

Horus makes a quick explanation. “Jet lag typically makes me lose a few inches, yes. I fly a lot, baby, Paris to Florida to Egypt.” Carter hums, doubt written on his face. “Having something as cute as you waiting for me is a nice pick me up.”

It’s convincing enough, the kid moving on. “You can stay in my room, with or without me,” he says, “up to you. Unless you’re staying in a hotel.”

“Why wouldn’t I stay with you? Where’s your room?” How easy could he get Carter in bed? The day is early. What else will they do? The kid was fairly riled up a moment ago.

“I’ll get your bag. I need to pester my sister to wake up anyway. Go sit on the couch.”

Which he does. A firm voice is _hot_ out of that slim little frame.

Horus shoots his mother a quick text (‘ _Bastet lives with my boy’_ ), and lets Hathor know he got there safely. He was meant to do that earlier, but he’s been distracted by kissing his soulmate. She doesn’t need to know that; she’ll get snarky and remind him that she was right: he’s been reignited by a young mate. Lovely wife, talented she may be, didn’t get a rise out of him like Carter does. It’s like _he’s_ young again, bothered by a bit of kissing. Hell, he had the kid twice in Paris.

He’ll be damned if he goes back to Paris without another go (or three. he’s here for a _week_ ).

The apartment is tidy, not what he expects from two children. Floor is clean, and tucked into the corner is a short shelf crammed with books (few of which have either ‘ _Dr. Julius Kane’_ or ‘ _Dr. Ruby Kane’_ inscribed on the spine), ranging from academia to fantasy to harlequin. They probably aren’t Carter’s, but it’s a sweet thought of his Kane bundled up and pouring over one of them. He can wiggle that into Carter’s day, based off what he knows about him.

The kid is wearing his coat still, he notes, and sees the elusive younger Kane pad barefoot across the carpet. Paler than Carter, sandy blonde hair streaked with red, muddy blue eyes deeply set in her face. High waisted flannel pants, stomach peeking from the rolled up black tank top, black smudge on her shoulder. “You’re half siblings?” Horus blurts out, the same bump of their nose the only indication they’re related.

“No,” both reply. Carter frowns, and Sadie Kane, terrifying one hundred and seventy-three centimeters, finishes, “Don’t mention it again.” He’ll press _why_ later, needs to correct the frown first. Has to take care of those he loves, keep them happy. All he has. 

“Understood.” He doesn’t care what the younger Kane thinks, arm around Carter when he sits. Carter’s lean frame slouches into him. “Well then, you’re the youngest Kane, I’m assuming? The photographer one.”

Sadie flops on the recliner, feet over the arm. “Yep, that’s me. You’re the French fucker I’ve been sending them to.” Her hair has thousands of strays, caught in the light. 

Carter grumbles, “Thanks for telling me I was being photographed.”

“You make a wonderful lockscreen, baby.” He rubs his shoulder, swallowing the swell of affection that comes after Carter’s huff. He saw in Paris, hid in his shoulder and demanded he change it from the sleepy version of him. So he did: the kid with a straw in his mouth now. “Are you going to interrogate me?” Only fair, after Hathor.

Carter ignores them, little yawn, and curls on his lap. How _bold_. He obliges him, hand on the small of his back. “You’re sleeping on me? I just got here.” Eight A.M, but his dear has been up for a while. Mortals are delicate things.

Sadie shrugs. “Are you really his soulmate?” she asks.

“Everything says so.” 

“Weird ass tattoo on your back?”

“Yes.” Horus isn’t the crying type, but was dangerously close in Paris, dragging his mouth over the familiar yet new ridges. He’s _real._  

“Heart racing shit?”

“Definitely.”

She says, “Hurt him, and I hurt you back.” He subdues the eye roll. “Long as you treat him right, we’ll get along fine. Although,” she grins ferally, the wildness of a horse before a cannon is fired, “I do admit you look kind of strong.”

Horus blinks. “I’m more than _kind of strong_. I hate to break it to you, but you can’t take me in a fight.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some chapters i hate more than others


	21. Chapter 21

**How long will we live/in this leaf-strewn place,/thinking we belong/to the sky?**

Ruby Kane is an older Sadie. Slight frame in a modest dress, grey streaked hair pulled into a tight bun, she’s the image of the aged mother (gods know he saw plenty in Egypt, and the mothers of soldiers in his command years later). She smiles, eyes crinkling, and Horus is drawn into a hug. “You must be Horus,” she says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Kane,” he replies, fraction of a smile always reserved for those who remind him of _his_ mother. Crowds aren’t his speciality, and the stream of people passing them into the gala make him itch.

She pats his arm. “Please, just Ruby.” She smells like her son: spice and magic.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ruby.” He conferred with Hathor for a solid hour about what to wear. Carter helped tie the damn tie, flattened his collars and cuffs. He kept quiet how similar a suit is to military dress (both of which he hates). Carter doesn’t know about _that_ part of his life, chops his money up to being a former diplomat, not a mercenary and eventual general.

His outfit seems fine, if Ruby’s appraising eye is a judge mark. Good. He has to make a good impression on these people. Skating by on his good looks and basic social skills should work.

“Why don’t you go find your father?” Ruby asks towards Carter. “He’s busy tonight, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you kids.” Another parent to meet, great, and his skills with men pale compared to women.

Carter slips his arm through his, giving his mother a quick peck before they’re gone. He grabs a drink in passing, and the kid shakes his head. “Dad’s a little tougher than Mom. Probably better to wait a while. He’s in charge of this, and really stressed,” he explains. His hair is freshly combed – Horus messed it up in the car – and his cheeks are awfully bright. Comfortable in his suit, obviously use to this, having the capacity to dress both of them.

A long drink. “Fine by me.” He glances around he exhibits, a focus on mixed Roman/Egyptian relations. Disgusting, and another wash of champagne to keep down his bile. Carter’s father is an Egyptologist, a fact he can’t forget.

He makes eye contact with one of the Ptolemies. “Did you have any hand in this?” he asks.

Carter beams some, then mutes it and calms down. “I–I did, actually. Dad offered for me to write some of the pamphlets and information guides. Off the record, though.” He has _pride_ in what he does. Cute. “Plus I got to bring you, and I don’t have to talk to Dad’s colleagues,” he admits with a laugh.

“Anti-social?”

“Socially awkward.”

They’ve paused, hidden in the shadow of a Hera statue. How anyone managed to believe his mother was her he’ll never understand. Mother may have her quirks, but she’s a gentle woman compared to _Hera._ “You act fine with me,” he points out.

He shrugs. “I’m comfortable,” Horus’ heart speeds up, “with you. Groups? Not so much.” He looks at his glass, asking, “Can I have a sip?”

He doesn’t see why not. He passes it, and Carter sniffs and takes a tentative drink, face scrunching up. “Never drank before?” he asks, bemused smile.

“No,” he sputters, and Horus pats his back. “I just turned twenty-one.”

He cocks his head. “Drinking age?” he guesses. He’s been drinking long as he can remember; water was never safe. “I guess you’re easy to liquor up,” he comments. “Don’t go drinking alone then.” He finishes the glass, stooping down to give him a kiss.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he rebukes. Another swell of affection; he looks incredibly dapper, so sweet and awkward.

Horus laughs. He doesn’t care for the exhibit, but it makes Carter happy. “Anti-social you may be, care to show me around?” he asks. He grabs another drink along the way.

* * *

 

It’s a night of reliving a fuzzy part of his life. He’s had a fair number of drinks, but his alcohol tolerance is high. Carter knows what he’s talking about, and most of his information is true. His voice is firm with hints of excitement, and Horus wonders how lost he would get in the palace’s library.

He hasn’t thought about the palace since they left it.

He wants to show Carter it. The palace. The halls. The throne, the kitchen, the hidden tunnels, his griffins. Everything. Find his old crook and flail and tell Iskander to shove his staff where it doesn’t shine. Bring his sisters and son home. Carter, too, to have something to show for his years abroad.

In a crushing moment of realization, he misses _home_. Sumer wasn’t a home, Babylonia, Ottomans, England, Paris. None of it matters. Sand and silt, stale air every morning, sweet flowers tickling his nose, high blinding sun, screech of hawks, pounding of horses, shouts of the market. He doesn’t cry, but knows the feeling well, pressure building beneath his eyes, even the useless one. No. It’s not going to happen. Not publicly, without Mother, without Hathor, in front of Carter.

“Hey,” and speak of the little devil, “are you alright? Come on, this way.” Carter lets go of his arm and grabs his hand, pulling him away from the exhibits, the crowd. Quick he shoulders a door open, and the lights are blinding, compared to the gentle lights out in the main event. White light bathes the restroom granite, turning everything bright, contrasted browns and yellows which looked _disgusting_ compared to their polished black shoes.

Carter steadies him against the sink, then grabs for some toilet paper. Cheap shit, but Carter wipes at his eyes for him, and he catches up that he _is_ crying. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not like this.” His voice trips. Like losing his eye. He cried then, and the second time when Mother casually mentioned removing it. He cried during the rebirth of his sons, pre-Hathor, and borderline bawled for Ihy’s rebirth that he was present for (childbirth is a _terrifying_ thing to watch). And he teared some during his third or fourth wedding with Hathor. But those were _acceptable_ moments to cry like a toddler; now? in a museum bathroom over a home long gone?

Pathetic.

Carter smiles. “You’re fine, I promise. Can I ask what started this?”

“Memories.” Horus takes over drying the tears. “I’m okay, I promise. Can I hug you? Do you mind?” he asks. Everything’s dry, no risk of ruining Carter’s suit.

“You’re cute. Go ahead.” Horus crushes Carter into him. He shoves his nose in his hair, recalling how his wife calmed him in non-dancing ways, but he can’t, so it’s deep breaths only. It works on Ihy, must work on him. Father-son.

He feels Carter squirming to adjust. “I–“ give him _some_ explanation, “the exhibit is reminding me _of_ living in Egypt, young as I may have been. We were _sort_ of an old fashioned bunch before coming West, arranged marriages and shit like that. Had a bunch of artifacts in our home, heirlooms. Don’t have any of it now.”

Carter pats his shoulder, surprisingly strong. “It’s alright, you don’t have to explain yourself. You’re not allergic to perfume, are you?” He shakes his head, and Carter spritz him with a weak vanilla. “You smell like champagne. Can’t have you meeting Dad like that.”

“Fair,” he says. “I don’t want your father to think I’m a drunk.”

Tender moment is ruined by Sadie Kane of all people coming into the men’s room. She’s dressed fairly masculine, everything considered; they had left the Kane apartment before her, and this is the first he’s seeing of her. “You _do_ like a drink, it seems,” Carter remarks, but Horus is too perplexed by Sadie to really hear. Women wear pants, sure, whatever, it’s a new era. But _suits_? Who would willingly put one on? He doesn’t get it. If she wants to suffer in the stiff cotton, fine.

“I hate dresses, old man,” she says, and Carter’s made aware of her presence. “There’s some rowdy _party guests_ upstairs, Carter, if you could take care of them.” A series of darting eyes between the two conveys an entire conservation he’s not privy to.

Horus glances down at both of them. “Wouldn’t security handle that?” He’s a bit too delicate to handle any intruder. “I’d like to go with you.”

Sadie winks. “He’s a master negotiator. He’ll handle it. Let’s go, old man. You and me.”

Carter kisses him soon as his mouth opens again. He breaks the contact, sweet hand on his chest. “I’ll be back soon. Go. Bond with my sister.”   

He’s passed to Sadie like a wedding bouquet, and she goes arm in arm with him. She must look odd, stepping out of the men’s room with two men, but no one is paying attention. Carter ducks through a metal door and shuffles up the stairs, a final smile, and the crack closes.

* * *

 

Sadie Kane has the same curiosity about alcohol as her brother, but it’s easy to keep the glass out of her reach. “Don’t be such a stickler,” she complains, viciously biting into a cracker.

“I’m being a stickler until I get parental permission to do otherwise,” he replies.

“Mom already likes you.” They wandered around from the main exhibits, a side project of Phoenicians. Boat models. Nice.

Horus chuckles. “That was quick. Speaking of quick, shouldn’t Carter be back by now?” The air has a charge, and he wants to plug his nose to keep out the stench of demon. Residual from the artifacts, he’s sure, but Carter is out of sight with demons around.

Sadie shrugs. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

She’ll be easy to get away from. Horus tilts his glass towards her, and bends to talk to her ear. “I’ll let you have my glass if you let me go look for him.”

“No.” Not the response he hoped for. “You can give me a sip anyway.” They keep walking, and Horus sees a door familiar of where Carter disappeared, and deductive reasoning leads him to believe it’ll get him the same place as him.

Horus gives her the glass. “Here. I never did this,” he says. While she’s preoccupied with his drink, he opens the door, and there is the startled blue eyes snapping on his retreating form. Simple seal on the door, keeping it closed on his side. He doesn’t wait for her to react, rounding the second base of the stairs. His keen ears pick up her slamming her fist on the door, shaking the handle violently. That went well, at least. Frustrated overall with his clothing, he loosens his tie and shoves it in his pocket, sick and tired of it. His neck can breathe, and the rest will come later.

His time is slower than he likes, but he’ll blame it on the suit, not aging or his lax lifestyle.

Administration floor. He doesn’t have the patience to search him out, and for once things go his way — vibrant flash of blue beneath a door, dims, flare and his Kane’s voice, “Oh, shit.” He can smell the demons now. It’s pungent sulphur.

His sword fits perfectly in his hand. Old European one he’s favored since the sixteen hundreds, straight blade polished and sharpened periodically. He opens the third door of the night, peering to confirm his suspicions: Carter Kane —soulmate of Horus — is indeed a magician. Apparently, an inefficient one, preferring to straight up _beat_ the demon with his staff.

It’s quite cute. Horus would do the same.

Is combat magic prohibited in the Nomes? Surely the boy is allowed a _dagger_ at least.

He’s snapped out of his stupor by his panicked yelp. The staff is snapped on the floor. Seeing Carter pinned to the window via his throat by one of those tool headed bastards ignites hot rage in his stomach. 

Fresh.

Horus rushes forward. Don’t think, act. He grabs the demon between the junction of skin and fused metal, throwing it away from Carter, and slides his sword through its heart like butter. “ _Be gone,”_ he commands, and has no time to linger. The thing’s final act was to shove Carter through the panels of glass, and he catches the kid by the wrist, popping, unbridled power shooting through them. Second story wouldn’t be a terrible fall, but unexplainable.

Shocked to be alive, Carter looks up, mouth gaping. Instinct forces him to say, “Can you pull yourself up?” and he dumbly nods. He pulls Carter through the broken glass carefully, dusting his shoulders off. His suit is ripped, and Horus shrugs out of his jacket again, wraps it around his quaking shoulders.

“How–How did you”— 

“You’re a magician, I take it?” he asks, leveling his voice. Don’t be angry.

Carter nods. “How did you take care of the demon?” he asks back. Lie. Keep lying. Say he’s a magician too. He can’t out himself and his family as gods.

Horus smiles. “I take it your parents and sister are magicians too?” What other choice does he have? “You’re all godlings too. If that adorable look on your face is any indication you didn’t know that one.” He brushes his hair out of his face, kissing his forehead. 

He shakes his head violently. “Godlings don’t exist. I’m not one.” Wild, dangerous flickers of magic in his normally calm eyes. Fear. It’s fear. He claim to not be one all he wants, but Horus can sense it well.

“Okay,” Horus sighs. “We’ll talk about this over breakfast. I need to fly my mother out here.”

* * *

 

Mother tells the tale more efficiently then he could. 

Not that he listens.

He was there for it.

Carter’s pretty hazel eyes catch his — Horus is staring at him unashamed — when Mother mentions _Pharaoh Horus_ , and he smiles, a _Yes, that’s me._ King Horus, with his beautiful wife and slew of children. He’ll explain that later, and if the other Kanes catch on to that tidbit, they hide their shock or disgust well. Sadly, he hasn’t seen Carter enough to read his body language, yet things seem fine, kid even smiles back.

She leaves out all their traveling, anything personal really, and only describes Ma’at’s status. The sun is rising when she finishes, and he’s pouring himself a glass of cran apple juice in one of those small, half glasses. All those artisan juices Hathor’s had him drink, and they don’t compare to _Ocean Spray_ , a drab bottle perfect in their white, tacky fridge. He’ll finish the bottle before the day is over.

Mother and Ruby Kane know one another. Ruby is the girl Isis hosted temporarily to release Bastest during his nap. “That...sounds right,” Ruby says.

“Sounds right to what?” Mother smiles as he passes her a glass, patting his forearm appreciatively. He can see Iskander barring their side of the story, filling magicians minds with whatever benefits the Per Ankh. The duo that met Horus and Hathor at Dendera were proof enough for him, going to strike his lady-wife all for a few good questions.

Julius opens his mouth. He reminds him of his own father for some reason, and he tries to not roll his eyes. Respect for his father, of course, but he’s never done well when other men open their mouths. “My family library has scrolls dating back to Narmer, when my family began,” explains the smell, “all the way up to the mid nineteenth century. We have records of what you described, Lady Isis.” She likes that, he notes with a fond roll of his eyes, as she sits straighter in her seat. As if she could look even more like a queen. “The Nomes don’t teach that, though, and exclusively state that it was _you_ that drove yourselves out of your...home.”

“We know about hosting, godlings, all that forbidden magic through the Kane family library,” Ruby says. Forbidden magic. Natural way of convening between god and mortal, and it’s been branded illegal.

Kind of funny. He snickers.

Isis kicks his shin. No pain. “What’s considered forbidden?” Carter looks like he needs a nap and shower. They should be in bed by now, mortal peacefully asleep in his side while he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s wearing his coat.

“Divine Words,” Mother looks struck, “combat magic, ribbons of Hathor, most sympathetic magic.” Why are those ribbons named after Hathor? He’s never seen her use them. Sealing demons is more of her game than combat, so maybe one of her followers named them in her honor? A lot of questions he doesn’t have answers to.

Horus gnaws on his lip. “What a lousy lot of magicians. Why have magic if you can’t use it.” He swallows his red blood. “The old cuck basically sealed everyone. Can any of you even part a river?” he asks. Ruby and Julius’ face darken when he mentions _sealed_. Iskander wouldn’t let the Kane children run around with their potent blood unchecked.

“Iskander’s the old cuck?”

“Sadie!”

 


	22. Chapter 22

**And my death is not my death,/but a pillow beneath my head, a rock/propping the window open/to admit the jasmine.**

Momma feeds him an early dinner. Since Papa left town, things have been early, and Momma’s been taking him to market with her.

He pretends he’s strong enough to carry baskets of plums and tomatoes, and when he’s obviously struggling Momma takes the basket on her hip and gives him the eggs instead. He’s not use to this physical exertion, and he wipes his face off, scraping his leftover meat into a bin.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, and she always looks so sad when Papa’s gone, so she nods. “I’m gonna change,” he says. He stays with her when Papa’s gone. Close, they’re mother-son, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Plus, Papa doesn’t sleep anymore, so _someone_ has to keep her company, and he gladly will.

They fall asleep before nine.

* * *

 

Ihy wakes up alone to pounding on the front door. The neighbors won’t like that, Momma should have gotten the door by now. She’s not in bed with him and ignoring the door.

Wrong.

He bounces out of bed. Slides his little feet into his slippers, smoothing a wild piece of hair in his face. He needs a haircut. Papa hasn’t been home to take him, taking over the duty. Momma says she likes it though, makes him look four again, his face rounder than the sharp edges it’s taken on. “Momma!” he calls, “the door!” In the shower, possibly? But he doesn’t hear the water and there’s no bath oils in the air.

She doesn’t call back. The banging only gets louder, and he realizes _he’s_ going to have to answer the door. Can’t pretend no one’s home, he’s already been yelling.

Does _stranger danger_ matter when you’re a god?

A god Ihy’s size? Probably

A final bang, louder than ever, the creak of the hinges ringing through the apartment. The decision was made for him, and he stays close to the wall. “Ma, Pops? Ya home?” Centuries since he’s heard that voice, and his skin crawls. Four Sons. He’s alone.

At least there’s only two of them in the living room. Imsety, as dark as Papa and tall - why is he so tall - and Duamutef closes the door, larger yet and while the mouth is human, it’s just as terrifying. He stays quiet, swallowing his fear, large amber eyes riveted on their hips. No swords, no bumps or disruptions in their clothes for concealed daggers. Ihy takes a slight step back, hardwood groaning beneath him. _Damnitdamnitdamnit_ –

All of Horus’ sons have golden eyes, and Duamutef isn’t an exception. “Ihy!” they both say, far too happily. He twists to run, but Duamutef heffs him up by the armpits, holding him at arms length. “Where’s Ma and Pops?” Imsety asks, sharp nails poking his cheek.

“Papa’s out of town, and Momma‘s here.” He keeps the tremble out of his voice. Imsety has wandered off, opening the various doors and peeking in. “What do you need?” he asks, eyeing his brother. That’s a loose word. They don’t like him. The feeling is mutual. _His_ momma, _their_ pa.

Momma adopted the Four Sons easily, no questions, just a smile and hugs all around. Papa, upon realizing he wouldn’t get Momma without Ihy, took him in no problems, and Ihy gradually warmed up to him.

None of the boys got along. He would play hide and seek around the palace — both mortal and god — from Momma and her handmaidens, and occasionally Papa, if he was in the mood. He took care of his duties, leading the confused dead to their afterlife with all the ease a boy of four can, and Momma always made sure he had time to play and see her. The other sons spent most of their time out of palace, only coming for Grandmother’s yearly dinners. Mostly grown, Papa didn’t worry about it, and focused a _lot_ on Ihy.

When the boys did come to the palace, and Papa still had his other duties, things never went right. Broken toys, bruises from _rough housing_ (a lie; he only ever played like that with Papa), quivering in the cabinets of the kitchen and found by the staff.

“Gotta talk to Pops, little shit,” Imsety explains. “Been a few ages since we saw the old man. Figured we stop in.” They want something. “I’ll ask you again – where’s Ma?” he asks harshly.

“She’s not here?” Imsety’s _thorough_ investigation confirms his fears. “Momma’s gone?” he stutters; Duamutef grips him tightly around the ribs, enough that it hurts. He’ll bruise for sure, ribs caving beneath the force.

He shakes his head. “No. Where’d she go? Ain’t like her to leave you.” He’s the baby, he got all the attention by parents and grandparents alike. Attached to her hip figuratively and literally.

He swallows his fear, large lump that doesn’t pass smoothly. “I-I don’t know.” The brothers share a glance and nod.

Duamutef leans close to his face, terrible, evil smile lined with teeth. “You tell Pops we’re looking for him. We don’t have time for Hathor’s mouse games.” A snap of his jaw, and Ihy cries, thrashing in his grip, beating at his wrists. He’s dropped unceremoniously on the floor, weight landing on his left ankle. He scampers back.

“O-okay.” In his scurrying he runs into Imsety’s legs, and he puts weight on his ankle in his escape attempt from him, biting his lip to muffle the pained moan. “I’ll let them know you came round,” he promises, shaky smile. Appearance is important.

Imsety crouches beside him, flicking the side of his skull. “Ma and Pops _have_ to talk to us, got it? We’ll be back tomorrow. Get Pops in town.” He agrees, and Imsety ruffles his hair. “See you later, little shit.” Duamutef does likewise, and the second the front door closes again, he scrambles through the apartment, looking through the rooms. Her coat is here, but her usual favorite pair of shoes aren’t.

No Momma.

He grabs the home phone from its kitchen dock, no note for him on the counter. He dials her number — he has to redial a few times, fingers trembling; how useless can he be? — and holds the phone up to his ear. Dial tone. It goes straight to voicemail. She always has a charge on her phone, and never turns it off.

Ihy calls again. And again. And again, until the tips of his fingers hurt. Where is she? It isn’t like her to ignore him, leave him, to not pick up when his special ringtone goes off.

He isn’t lucky like most gods. His body will heal itself, but not as fast as Papa or even Aunt Nephthys. But he drags himself through the apartment, checking the rooms again, looking at the stand for a note, before huddling in her bed, flicking the television on. Things pass by in French, but the lights are nice.

He calls Papa next. Papa isn’t quick to answer like Momma, but he picks up when it’s Ihy. Except when he doesn’t, like now. Rings, then to voicemail. Not as concerning as with Momma, so he calls another time, tenderly poking his ankle. His hisses. Hurts.

Anger spikes in his chest. Hurt and alone. He calls Momma again, hopeful to hear her voice, bring him down. Momma’s good at that. Her job, Lady of Merriment.

Alternating between his parents (and a desperate call to his grandmother and aunt), he feels hot tears welling in his eyes. But he won’t _cry_ , he may be her baby but he isn’t _a_ baby. And Papa would tease him if he blubbered over the phone.

* * *

Ihy falls asleep and wakes up sweating. The sheets are twisted around him, phone awkwardly cradled against his cheek. It beeps in his ear, and almost mechanically he slams it in the dock on the nightstand, switching it for the one there.

It’s mid afternoon. He’s missed school. The boys must have visited around eight. He has all night to either find his parents or flee like a coward.

Ihy was never _good_ at magic like Momma or Isis. Don’t need magic to hold a spirit’s hand and lead them to Grandfather Osiris’ throne room. Slipping through Duat planes is simple enough, and he doesn’t do combat or healing, so there’s really no point in knowing a lot of magic. Doesn’t mean Papa and his old soul didn’t _try_ , to least prolong his survival chances. He hated every moment of it, but inklings of affection grew for King Horus, the best way the man knows to show he cares along with material goods. He can track, somewhat shittily.

But Momma and Papa are large enough.

And in moments of panic—like the impending doom of his brothers coming—he can whip something up. Iskander won’t notice a speck like him, poking and prodding around.

A final sweep through the apartment, limping by on his swollen, purple ankle, and nothing has changed. He grabs an apple, sinking his teeth into it. It’s sour, and the crunch satisfying, loudest sound in the house. He eyes the front door warily, and drags one of the island stools over, climbing on it to reach the deadbolt. For good measure, he locks the windows and closes the curtains too.

Ihy climbs back into the bed. How does this work again? He closes his eyes, taking deep breaths. Papa has it easy, one eye continuously looking into the _Duat_ , and Grandmother has crocodile vision. Should just...lower his vision between the planes like his body. That’s how Papa explained it.

A myriad of colors, stained glass windows of the church down the street, wispy tendrils of gold and blue across the furniture. Either find the cow or the falcon. But he _knows_ where the falcon is, he just won’t answer the phone. And Papa is a better tracker, the best, so he’ll leave find-Momma to him.

Ihy locks onto Papa. He reminds himself to slap him upside the head when he gets there.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the numbering for this is messed up lmao
> 
> this starts by saying xxiii., and the last was xxi., but on my computer chapter 22 is saved as chapter 22 (xxii.), so i'm going to delete the numerals for now. i think this is because i have two versions of this story, one on my computer and one on my google docs; i transferred all of them from gdocs to my computer and edited them there, but then i don't think all of the chaps on gdocs got the same edits lmao.
> 
> this IS the next chapter. we're almost to part three, which has never seen the light of day before.

**and to have to think/of that small/pale body asleep/i return I take the stairs/3 at a time/and now my heart is sore  
**Horus stays with Carter while the _adults_ talk in the kitchen. Sadie too, curled on the recliner with a plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He hates the suit he’s still wearing, and Carter has quite the look, his pajama pants midday and Horus' suit jacket. Absolutely refuses to take it off, teasing smile and kiss to his cheek.

Whatever. He looks nice in it.

Horus would have taken it off anyway. Mother currently has his vest, complaining of being cold, and before Ruby could rush off to get her something, he had already whipped the vest off and tucked it over her narrow shoulders. It’s honest instinct: someone he loves needs something, give it.

At some point he has to wrangle Carter into taking him back to the apartment. His clothes, phone, and other wallet are all tucked away in his bag.

Carter’s recovering now, apparently. Magicians don’t extend themselves often, and last night was the most magic he’s used (or so he claims). Poor, potential little godling, exhausted by a demon. He deserves more, but that can come later, kid sitting sideways across his lap, face tucked in his shoulder. Fidgety thing, continually asking, “Still okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” he asks; he’s fine to have Carter squirm on his lap; time is always passing slowly. Quietly continuing, “You’re adorable and cuddly, but I saw how oddly you looked at me when my mother mentioned my wife.” Carter tenses, and gods, Horus, how stupid can you be? He kisses his cheek softly, then moves to nuzzling his hair.

“...I just thought that either you’re divorced or you’re like the Greeks, which doesn’t make sense, but it’s whatever.” Horus squeezes his hip, compressing his anger at being compared to a Greek. He doesn’t know better. “You didn’t mention it, and I’m selfish, really, and want to keep you anyway.”

He finds an answer quick, close to the truth but not exactly. Can’t lie to the boy. “I’m not like the Greeks, and I’m not divorced-“

A doorbell goes off, and Carter quickly stands from his lap. “I got it!” he calls, tossing his jacket on the couch, to not look weird when he answers the door, Horus guesses.

Doesn’t matter. He follows him, asking, “Were you expecting company?” A heavy fear that the Nomes found out about them being here already. But two gods in a home with _four_ potential godlings? The door would have been busted down.

“Well, no. Just how illegal are you?” he asks, vague amusement in his voice. But his eyes stay down towards the door, and instinct has always been Horus’ friend, drawing Carter behind him. “It’s my house,” he mutters, but makes no effort to move.

The doorbell again, twice in quick succession. Carter eggs him along, pushing his back. He wants to roll his eyes and say _really_ , but hey, he gets to protect the wonderful little soulmate.

He grabs the doorknob, twisting it, looking through the small crack. Bare, small feet, familiar pajamas. A child. His child. He opens the door fully, peering down at his son. Shirtless, shaking son. “Oh, by god, Ihy, what’re you doing here? How are you here?”

He grabs his small shoulders, tugging him into the Kane home. His button up comes off easily enough, already half done by Carter’s nimble fingers, and it dwarfs Ihy, but he doesn’t think about that, crouching in front of him. Hathor wouldn’t let the boy out of the house looking like that, or come to find him alone. “Where’s your mother?” Hathor without Ihy?

Explainable. Ihy without Hathor?

Unacceptable.

Ihy, eyes darting and lingering on Carter, starts to stutter, “I-I tracked you. Went to bed last night and woke up alone. And then - Momma’s–I don’t know,” and the stuttering turns to full tears. Comfort is not one of his skills. Ihy knows what he wants, though, grabbing at his shirt, and Horus does what comes naturally, wrapping beneath his knees and back, cradling his quivering son.

“Hush, hush,” he says, trickling magic in his words. His veins turn to ice as Ihy clutches at him, blunt nails indenting his shoulders. “Kemetic?” he asks. “Would that be better?” He spies the youngest Kane coming out of the living room, and then his Kane shooing the both of them up the stairs. Thank him later with a kiss.

Hiccuping, labored breaths. «Yeah,» he manages, and Horus mutters back _Yeah_ , kissing his hair part. «Momma and I went to bed early, like nine, and we’re together, and then I woke up to pounding on the door. Momma hadn’t gotten it, and I called for her and no answer.» She’s never ignored Ihy. «I was going to answer the door, and then it busted open. It was your stupid sons, the oldest two, needed to talk to you and Momma.» Unintentionally grips Ihy tighter, heartbeat picking up. His sons? Why would they show up three thousand years later? No birthday cards or letters, appearing at their concealed apartment in Paris? The boys followed a scent. His.

Horus nuzzles his scalp, light bounce in his step. Calmed him when he was four, why wouldn’t it placate a seven year old. «What did they want?»

Ihy burrows violently in his neck, face wet. «Didn’t say. They’re coming back tomorrow morning, our time. Momma’s phone is off, and you weren’t answering, so I freaked out, didn’t want to be there when they were, and decided to find you, ‘cause you can find Momma. I was mad at you for ignoring me, gonna hit you, but now–don’t put me down.»

He repeats everything back to Ihy to make sure he’s heard right. Hathor isn’t answering, she hasn’t been home, left their littlest son _alone_ (how could she?), and his sons are prowling. Better to be elsewhere. «You said you tracked me? I’m awfully proud of you,» he cooes, and to make sure he knows, he scratches the back of his head, soft spot behind his right ear. «Anything else I need to know, little son?»

«...Dua broke my ankle,» he answers quietly, hinging on inaudible, «It didn’t heal right.» Soft yank on his shirt, twisting to stick his leg out. His ankle has swelled, a mirage of purples and yellows, and Horus tentatively touches it, the flesh beneath his hand hot. He sends a teasing spark of magic through his finger, and Ihy giggles despite the pain.

«Dropped you on it, I take it?» Ihy nods. «Why did you five never get along? Purely because you’re my ‘stepson’?» He truly _hates_ that phrase.

Horus starts upstairs, slowly, so hidden Ihy doesn’t notice or care. «I think. And how much younger I am, couldn’t roughhouse with me. And the attention I got.» He rants mousily, thinly veiled anger in his high voice.

“Carter, dear? What room are you in?” Lay Ihy down, have Mother set his ankle, and find Hathor while he naps. He has to be careful to not tip Iskander off, keeping things subdued.

The youngest Kane opens the door. “In here, old man. Who’s that?” Carter’s childhood room, desk, books, neatly folded blanket, high school paraphernalia, squat, long dresser. Carter’s brilliant hazel eyes – in the noon sun they look amber – snap to him.

He smiles. “Do you mind if he sleeps in your bed? This is my son, Ihy.” Sadie makes a funny face at Ihy and he does it back.

Carter nods. “Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. I’m going to–go.” He rushes by them, and Horus reaches out, hand on his shoulder. Cheeks are flushed, hesitant glance at Ihy before focusing on him.

Horus adjust Ihy, kissing his soulmate’s head. “Would you mind getting my mother?”

He kisses back, bumping his forehead. “Yeah. Can we talk later?” Horus promises _Of course._ He wishes Carter would smile another time, one of brightest and most beautiful things currently. But he’s processing right now, so he lets him go without a fight.

Horus peels back the blanket, lying the littlest of sons down. His fingers curl tight, Ihy compacting against his chest, a pained hiss as he kicks against his thighs to snuggle. «Papa,» he whines, «stay.» Impossibly small, barely manages to wiggle one hand in to start buttoning the oversized shirt.

«Right here, dear son.» He spent a few hours (ten? twelve?) by himself. The son needs to recharge, derive affections from his family, and wake up in his mother’s loving embrace. «Papa won’t leave you again, I swear.» Letting Ihy cling like that is how he ended up this needy, but Ihy sways between hating and loving him, and he won’t be the one to wean him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Little christ of our hearts, I know/planets light-years away/are under our tongues. We’ve tasted them.**

Isis smoothes Ihy’s hair from his face. “Are you staying with him?” she asks her son. She set her grandson’s ankle, and the little thing crawled on his father’s lap, promptly falling asleep. The boy isn’t terribly strong, but his grip looks so desperate on Horus' remaining shirt.

He hums. “I intended to. Can I have the key to your apartment? I left mine in Paris.” His hand covers Ihy’s back, soothing circles, boy even smaller as he shrinks into him.

“You’re not going back?” She fishes the key out of her pocket, palming it to him anyway. She should tell him about his sons visiting a few centuries ago. He should know that his boys have been around and haven’t ignored him for three thousand years. “Hathor, then boys?” Horus nods.

His voice is jovial, tripping over his words some. “Get the littlest son bathed and change at yours, find Hathor. I’m sure she hasn’t wandered far. It isn’t like her.” He stands, hushing Ihy’s sleep addled whine. Bending over he kisses her cheek. A good, sweet son. “I leave everything to you, Mother. I’m sure you’ll make the best decisions.” He leans closer, voice low, “Hosting the younger Kanes would give us an advantage against the Snake, don’t you think? Technically the little prince and little princess.” A shameless son she’s raised, wanting to sink his teeth further into that boy than he already has.

Ihy grumbles, “ _I’m_ the little prince,” and Horus grumbles back, “You’re the _littlest_ prince.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that your great contribution?” Mortal aid is part of defeating the Snake, sadly. “We’ll need your crook and flail too, along with the old Lord of Ma’at, if we’re brainstorming ways to deal with the Snake.” Ra would need to be reborn, bathed in the powers of a host, Khepri restored, and become the fresh, towering old man he always was. Until her, but it is what it is. Bringing Ra back also loses her baby’s favorite toys.

He laughs, loud, guffawing. “I think my contribution is more likely than yours. Bring it up, won’t you? We’ll do everything quietly so Iskander doesn’t hear.” Horus looks over her shoulder, fond smile, standing up straighter, Ihy giggling. “I know you’re out there, Carter. Come in.”

Isis looks over too. She should have met him under different circumstances. But he’s a cute little mortal, magician, curly hair, lean, bright eyes. Calm and polite, perfect for her son. “Can I come with you?” he asks.

“Your parents know?” he replies. Carter nods. “Alright. Nothing interesting is happening, fair warning.” The boy is clutching the strap of his bag, and shrugs. The teasing inflection in her son’s voice is an old sound, courting Hathor, “You just want to spend time with me, don’t you?”

Carter Kane huffs, fond smile gracing his young face. “I’m curious about magic. I’m not as good at magic as my sister, though, sort of disappointing.” The parents may comprehend what being a godling means, bred perfect ones at that, but according to Ruby, the children were sealed, and know nothing of their heritage.

Horus chuckles. “Beating the demon with your staff was precious.” The boy’s cut out for Horus’ brand of magic, she ganders. House magic is parlor tricks, twine to rope, staff to snake, clay to man. Godlings, natural ones, should have been able to grasp those concepts at a young age. “I’ll teach you some things,” her son offers.

“Non-magic things?” he stutters hopeful.

“Why not. Come here, we need to get going.”

* * *

She’s alone with the remaining Kanes. Ruby and Julius are in serious need of a nap, but Sadie is hyper, exuberance of youth, vibrant blue eyes locked on her wrist. “Hawk feathers?” she asks.

“Ostrich,” she corrects.

“...Lord Osiris?” Ruby inquires. _Lord_ Osiris. The Kanes have called her Lady Isis most of the night. A pleasant flashback, warm in her stomach, her and Hathor corunning the house when Horus was gone, when lordship was an important thing.

Isis smiles and nods. “Five thousand years.” She hasn’t seen him for two centuries, since her, Nephthys and Hathor pulled that stunt in the desert. She gets letters, too, unsigned and unmarked, but known.

“You look good for your age,” Sadie blurts out.

“Eternal youth will do that to a woman.” Isis wants a nap, so she starts the rest of their points. “You know about the Chaos Snake, I take it?”

“Bast has mentioned it. He’s due to rise,” Julius says. “The House doesn’t know. We wouldn’t have a way to explain how we know, without ending up in prison.” None of them would make good combat magicians, the father too old and the girls, well, girls. Women can be strong, but they finish better as diviners and priestesses. Offer her services to these three, doubting Horus would let her touch Carter anyway.

Isis brushes a hand through her hair. “With great discretion, I’d be willing to train you three, if you’re interested. Potentially host Ruby or Sadie, in the face of the Snake. My son would never admit it, but us gods aren’t as powerful as we use to be, and cannot defeat _him_ without mortal help.” The matter of Iskander not finding out is fine logistics she’ll figure out. “I wish the boys hadn’t left already. I’m certain we have a summer home or two still. Iskander won’t notice out there, I’m sure.”

Sadie raises an incredulous brow. “Two summer homes?”

“We had more, but we’ve gotten rid of them. Winter homes, too, habits left over from different palaces.” Her favorite was a cottage tucked away in the mountains of Persia, high, air thin and cool.

Ruby gently smacks her arm. “Not that main point, Sadie. We’d be honored, Lady Isis. Lord Horus has claimed Carter…?”

“ _Carter_ claimed Horus.” Quite cute. Horus gets to protect something that _wants_ to be protected by him. Not protected, but _cared_ for, and she’d giggle any other time, hoping the boy knows how spoiled he’ll be. Or maybe not, so Horus can dazzle him and sweep him off his feet. “I can let you know where once the boys get back. All of us can’t be there at once, though, and I do have other priorities in life,” tennis and consoling my younger sister, “but I’m sure we can make a schedule. If transportation cost is an issue, Horus can cover it.” Looking around the house, it doesn’t look like they’re pressed for cash, quite the opposite, but the sentiment is still there.

Julius recounts to her what she said, to confirm it all. “No one can know,” he says, to himself, and to the rest of them, “My family has been on thin ice with the House. I prefer to not make things worse.” Iskander is not the kind to murder — unless it’s Ma’at — but punishment is easy. Banish the Kanes, remove them from the Per Ankh and watch them for the rest of their lives, and future generations.

“And I promise that no harm will befall your family. _My_ family will make sure of that.”

* * *

Ihy needs coercion to be put down. Mother’s bed is tall and plush, and Horus has to go through all the promises in his book for Ihy to let go. “I promise to not let anything happen to you, and your mother will be home by nightfall. Imagine how upset she’ll be if you’re not cleaned when you reunite,” he says, kissing his forehead. “Do it for Hathor. The boys don’t know where you are.”

His little feet sink into the mattress. Getting somewhere. “Okay. Promise?” he asks. “You’d protect me from those – those – _asses_.”

“Language,” he says half heartedly. “Get cleaned up. I’ll be in the living room.” Horus ruffles his hair, son pouts but agrees. He grabs his own clothes first, Mother always prepared, figuring he can slip in his aunt’s shower while she’s gone.

He checks in on Carter, first, still standing behind the couch near the door, despite Horus’ offer for him to sit down and get comfortable. Awkward but cute, clutching his bag, bouncing his foot. He lays his clothes on the kitchen island, and Horus figures he should talk to him for a few moments. They _were_ discussing what his marriage to Hathor means before Ihy showed up.

It takes only a few steps from the hallway to the couch, and Carter’s amused glance up at him. How _gratifying_ that is. “Hi,” the kid says, and his hand leaves his bag - endearing, really, and grabs the collar of his last remaining shirt, bringing him close. “I don’t think your son likes me very much,” he admits, his gaze scrutinizing and impressive. Horus _actually_ wants to shrink away.

“He doesn’t like a lot of people,” Horus says back. And Carter hums and _gods_ why is this mortal boy cracking him this easily? The stress. Blame the stress. “Sit down, dear. I have to shower.” Horus lays one hand on his hip and guides him to the back of the couch.

Second hand on his pants button, and the kid’s smile is enough for him to keep his mouth shut. “...if last night didn’t happen, were you ever going to tell me about your wife?” he asks, unbuttoning his pants. That’s fine, he has to undress anyway, might as well have this cute little mortal do it.

Horus shrugs. “I don’t know. Aren’t mortals typically put off by their boyfriends having wives?” Ihy takes long baths, so there’s time for fooling around. Hathor isn’t truly missing, just incapable of being found by their son. He’ll find her easily.

“Yes. But I figured you were allowed to date and had some arrangement with her.” Untucks his shirt, kid spending a decent thirty seconds tracing his mark. When he had Carter in Paris, he thought it was a wise idea to nip along the swirls, and bit down once, only for Carter to yelp like an injured dog. Sensitive thing.

Horus knows for fact he isn’t allowed to _date._ “She granted me permission to date my soulmate. No one else. And look – I found you.” A peck to his cheek. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us. I...like you quite a lot.” It isn’t a lie, but the adoration broiling in his heart is dangerously close to being in love. He’ll blame the fact they’re soulmates as long as he possibly can.

“I like you too.” Carter grants him a kiss on the mouth, lips soft. “And...I like being your boyfriend.”

Horus sorts around the Duat for a moment, finding the old golden band he was searching for, his eye inscribed along the side. “So we are good?” Ihy has _finally_ drawn his bath, sound of rushing water flooding his ears.

“We’re great. You should probably go shower. Think you can handle it from here?” A teasing tug at his loose pants.

He smiles. “I’m sure I can figure it out,” he says. “Help yourself to anything. You can have this too,” and offers him his wallet. Order some food, less the boy wants to cook, but he’s well aware of his mother’s collection of take out menus hidden in shame in the drawer filled of silverware.

“You’re far kinder than the stories make you out to be,” Carter throws out, staring at the wallet like it’s poisoned. Horus kisses his forehead, letting that comment broil in his stomach. The stories focus on war, naturally, and kingship, occasionally Hathor, nothing else or positive concerning the other aspects of him.

He shrugs. “The stories only show one part of my life. I’ve always cared for those I loved.”

* * *

Ihy trods his way into the living room, ankle sore and purple still, barefoot and bare chested, fluffy yellow towel wrapped up around him. Grandmother always keeps nice towels around. Same tastes. And the pants he’s wearing a little big, hopeful for the day he grows some, toes only visible.

Papa’s in a similar state, sans towel, his soulmate perched on the kitchen counter, digging through a carryout container. No Momma still, but Papa can dote on the soulmate. Of _course_. His new outlet for affection, Papa busy on the phone but arm draped over his shoulders. Ihy swallows the rising anger, refusing to spare any more glances towards the mortal. Papa was his first.

« _Allo, c’est qui?»_ he says, voice flat. Papa’s never socialized well. « _Monsieur Fresnel? Tu vas bien?_ » Papa looks at him, raising a brow. He never paid much mind to anyone around them, polite enough in conversation but never actively engaging in it, leaving it to Momma. Diplomatic he may be, he avoids publicity much as he can. He did his job well for years, general and statesman, and much as Ihy reluctantly wants to admit, his main job seems to be caring for him now.

“Neighbor two doors down,” he supplies cheerfully. The mortal smiles at him, hidden and not outright, but he’s showing some semblance of kindness towards him. Ihy refuses to acknowledge it, settling himself on the opposite of Papa, who hands him his own box of food, rice and little cobs of corn, eyes imploring him to eat. Crying is exhausting.

Papa talks on the phone for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. Ihy eats, Momma wouldn’t like him frail, and the mortal — well the mortal minds his business, quiet as a mouse, the odd glance at Papa and blushing before calming and staring at his food. Gods, someone finds Papa _attractive_. What a weird thought. Have they _had?_ -the mortal is an adult, and that’s what adults do when they like each other.

Good grief.

« _Au revoir,_ » Papa says, and if the mortal wasn’t here he’d probably chuck the phone across the room, judging by how he grips the counter top and it splinters. “Our apartment was broken into. Nothing was taken, just rampaged and ripped through.” The mortal (what’s his name? Momma would want him to play nice while she’s gone, for the few more hours they’re separated) opens his mouth, probably to voice concern, but Papa shushes him the same way he use to Ihy, dropping his chin on the top of his skull. “No big deal, I assure you. Nothing in there mattered.”

“My _lamb_ ,” Ihy whines. “Was it the boys?” He pokes at Papa’s side, and he’s always been good at splitting affectionates, drawing him into an one arm hug.

He hums. “All four came to visit. I’m glad you weren’t there, dear son. I hate to imagine what they would have done to you. I think it’s time I paid them a visit, don’t you?” Papa never disciplined him physically, not his place to, leaving that to Momma. But his own blood got clapped plenty by his own hand and Isis. They’re unruly, no canopic jars to protect, no grandfather to work with. Maybe they’re all being hurt by the lack of kingdom, but _gods_ , he hates them.

Ihy curls an arm around his neck. “Can I come?” hidden behind his legs, yet confident because Papa is there to protect him, and he wants to see the fear in their eyes. Cocky in the absence of their foreboding lord father, but now — but now the boys have personally attacked both his family and home, and all bets are off. “But Momma first, I want Momma.”

“Yes, yes, son, I will get your mother.” Papa kisses the top of the soulmate’s head, fond smile making its home on his face.

The soulmate says, “Any children other than these five?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Five sons.” Ihy’s shoulder is squeezed

“That you’re aware of?” The mortal looks at Papa with a raised brow, who only laughs and promises, “A joke, my little love.” Ihy slaps his chest, annoyed, and pouts.

“Momma,” he says. “Then I leave and you two can be weird.”

Papa sighs. “We’re not going to be _weird_ in my mother’s house. Look, see, I’m going to find your mother-” he closes his eyes, a slow breath that makes his nostrils quiver. Ihy remains quiet yet jittery in his father’s arms. Momma’s been gone far too long, and he’s going to chew her ear off, make her make him breakfast, and finish their nap together. Silly woman, leaving him. She’ll fawn over him and his ankle, and all will be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of act 2 and holy fuck is this document messy on my comp
> 
> next is act 3, which is basically the ihy + horus show, mainly bc i, like, enjoy ihy a considerable amount


	25. Chapter 25

**i know a place/i can’t return to**

Hathor has taken to letting Ihy fall asleep on her lap. An angry child, taking after his father in more ways than one, likewise calmed by skin to skin contact. “I don’t like Papa anymore. You should get remarried. Find a better man.” He’s acted like this since Horus left to see his soulmate. He isn’t open to reason, and he won’t let her explain fully. It’s a ruse that she sees easily through.

“Do you want to call him?”

Ihy’s couple second pause speaks volumes. “No. He’s a jerk.” Visibly agitated, little brow furrowed, he roughly tucks himself into her shoulder. “He’s mean, he’s stupid–“

“–He’s your lord father–“

“He’s petulant, and he let me eat that sugary breakfast cereal you don’t want me eating and he tosses me in the air when he picks me up from school and he left us.”

She runs her hand through his hair, scratching his scalp. His father’s hair too, uneven, dark as unturned silt, but his hair has a natural scent to it that Horus’ doesn’t, laced with incense from birth. “Buying you sugary cereal? How  _ could _ he. Tell Momma more, and I’ll be sure to chew Papa out for it.” She wants him positively rambling about his father; Horus has the same right as her to decide what the boy eats.

Ihy sniffs. “When you sent us grocery shopping a few weeks ago,” if Hathor could tell her younger self that Horus, her vain and adorably inept husband, willingly went to the market with their son, she would, for the sheer disbelief it instills in her, “Papa stopped at one of those American grocery stores. He wanted something from Grandmother’s house. I asked for Lucky Charms, he said ‘Momma doesn’t want you eating those’, I pouted, slapped his leg, he gave in.” Ihy’s pout could resurrect the dead. “We came home, I ate a bowl, I got sick. He rubbed my back until I felt better.”

“How terrible of him.”

His tiny fist bunches up in her shirt. “That was the night you were late coming home. Papa let me sleep on his lap.”

Hathor hums, kissing his head. “Was that the night it was sticky, and you two went back to your shirtless ways?”

“It was.” Ihy lifts his head, rubs at his eyes. “Can we stop talking about Pap—Horus? I’m mad at him, remember?” Those’re tears, streaking down his rudy tinted face. She wants to comfort him, of course, her darling baby boy stretched out over her lap, but sometimes he needs to work things out himself. It comes with the territory of being a child with all the knowledge of an adult, forced into an equally adolescent brain.

“Of course, baby. Let’s lay down. Momma’s tired.” Carefully, lovingly holds him closer to stand, soft, waltzing steps to their (Hathor’s and Horus’? Hathor’s and Ihy’s?) bedroom, easily pulling back the sheets with one hand. He’s prattling on about  _ something _ at school, his failed attempts to make friends which pangs her heart.

He curls closer as she lays them down. “Dinner was good, Momma.” Then he’s silent, small hand drawn to his mouth, his same vulnerable sleeping position he picked up from a much younger Horus, both in immortality and mentality.

Hathor waits for some time. Ihy is still in need of a haircut, she muses, poor son jostled between two suddenly conflicting schedules. Horus, thankfully, unsurprisingly, still cares for Ihy during the day. She never imagined that Horus—broken king, haughty boy, and eventually a mellowed man—to be so tender with their son. Gentle, yes. The man always had a softer, albeit well hidden, side of himself. Yet the tenderness he exudes to Ihy, at times, shoves her closer to falling in love all over again.

She held the expectation that Horus would treat Ihy like any son.  _ Any son _ meant how he treated the other four. Not terribly, but uninterested. But over the years, from the very first meeting to now, his quiet love for the boy,  _ their _ boy, only became more apparent. Between fulfilled promises of protection stamped with kisses and an obvious favoritism, Ihy slowly flourished under Horus, his lord father, his confidant, his provider. From the first gift of a stuffed lamb, starting a steady obsession, to the recent quilt in Horus’ attempts to patch their relationship, there had always been exchanges.

Lips to her slumbering son’s forehead, she murmurs softly, “Momma will be back. Be good, Ihy.” Finishing with a spell of her own to keep him sleeping, she slips out of bed, tucking him in. He doesn’t stir. She couldn’t explain the situation to him if he did.

* * *

_ Sunny Acres/ _ the House of Rest is not what it use to be. It was never much to begin with, an afterthought to their grand empire, but with only Tawaret to care for the forgotten, it's slipped further. It’s a shame her father rests here.

Thinking about her beloved father, despite he being the reason she’s at  _ Sunny Acres _ , wouldn’t do well. It’d only inspire anger towards her dear husband. Technically, he wasn’t alive when Isis pulled her tricks. And technically, he was the second oldest. Admonishing the present Horus,  _ her _ dear Horus, would do nothing to rectify the past. He only benefitted from the treatment of Re, but did not have a hand in it.

Pinning the sins of the mother onto the child would only hurt Ihy. 

Hathor carefully makes her way through the lobby. Old bird headed gods, Heket the frog goddess, decrepit and curled up on themselves as they play senet. The reception desk is as grand as she remembers, crescent shape and complete with beautiful marvel, finished off with modern acruments: telephones, computers. Behind the station, pinned on the wall, is a whiteboard charted out, listing the current residents.

She lets her eyes read the board, various medications and channel requests, ignoring Onuris and his wife. Onuris is one of her half siblings, Bastest’s brother. Plenty of Re’s children faded into obscurity. The gods of the Ennead absorbed more duties, and the individualized gods faded away. Why did they need another god of hunting and war, as Horus achieved national fame?

It was redundant.

Taweret recognizes her. Taweret was always an odd one, preferring her animal form but a hair anthropomorphic, a hippopotamus walking on two legs and heels. She midwifed one of Hathor’s labors. Likely Duamutef. Horus’ sons were large. “Lady Hathor,” she manages, wig tilting as she awkwardly bows. “For what do we owe this visit?” Shabiti men float by, likewise donned with a hippo head, wheeling patients around.

Hathor feels underdressed. Now would be the time to let the cow head appear and wear her old cowl and crown. She isn’t that woman anymore, she reminds herself. “I’m here to see my father, the Lord Re, Tawaret.”

The lobby turns silent. She’s accustomed to eyes on her, and doesn’t budge beneath the wavering gazes of the forgotten. “I would appreciate it if you pushed me that way,” she carried on.

Tawaret wrings her hands, shifting nervously on her feet. “Lady Hathor, you know that without the Book of Re, he’s impossible to find.” 

“I know that. Yet I am his beloved daughter. I will take my chances.” Hathor smiles sweetly. “I take it this means he has not been administered care?”

Can hippos blush? Tawaret wisely avoids eye contact. “Lord Re has a shabiti with him.”

Hathor keeps the smile plastered. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be looking.”

“You’re free to do as you please, Lady Hathor.” She shifts once more. “Do remember that time moves differently in the Houses of Night.” Little Ihy, little hope. He’ll be useless, but she loves the boy. She’ll have to hide him, during the inevitable conflict with the old lord. Ihy was never meant for combat and she’ll damn anyone who tarnishes him.

“Yes, Tawaret. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is...............ancient


	26. Chapter 26

**I did not realize that you were fading from sight/I don’t believe I could have helped with the transition**

The stench of Mother’s apartment is overwhelming. He knows the scent—wet dog—and it irritates his nose as the scent from Ihy’s bath fades away.

Carter takes a brief nap on the couch, curled up against the arm. He’s...adorable, his smooth cheek resting on the material, tucked under a blanket. The boy has been up decently long. He cannot fault him for it. Ihy follows suit, angrily curled up on Horus’ lap as the sun sets, lured to sleep by his hand on his back. Worried for his mother he may be, immortal child too, he can only handle so much; Ihy’s capable of processing so much emotionally.

He leans his head back. His two favorite people are checked in and well. A nap would be welcomed, now. Horus shakes that feeling off. He can’t. Not now. The risk of falling into another deep slumber is too great. He needs to stay awake for Ihy and Hathor’s sake, and for the impending doom known as the Chaos Snake.

He lets his eyes drift shut, however. _Duat_ sighting isn’t nearly as easy as it used to be, with the silver eye quitting on him, no longer in possession of split vision. He knows his wife well, has the shape of her signature continually imprinted in his mind. She’s more mortal in her true appearance, her svelte body topped off with a cow’s head. Nothing animalistic about her, donned with her crown. He thinks back a few thousand years, first meeting Lord Ra’s illustrious, glowing daughter properly face to face, no longer flirting across distances, dancing for him beneath trees through a hazy veil of tears, her son’s glares hostile still but more opened.

The early days where odd, but good. Terrible hours of crying, uncomfortable moments with family members he, thankfully, does not see. There are certain things he wishes Carter never has to know about him, things he’s only comfortable with his wife knowing, but his life, its major moments, is immortalized in stories and glyphs.

He couldn’t lie to the mortal if he tried.

Focus. Hathor. Broken son. He balances the vision halfway, golden eye pulsing uncomfortably behind the lid. It has been an age and a half since the eye last gave him problems, and ideally the gold shouldn’t. The gold is natural. The gold is what it should be. But it isn’t. Another issue on a failing body.

Hathor, not Horus.

Focus. If Hathor is anywhere on the mortal plane, he should see her. Ihy needs her.

Horus knows what he looks like, memorized, armor and bloodstained beak. There, in the Duat, lies Ihy, animal headless. He was always different in that regard, no cow, no falcon, only the head of a child, though the Duat version holds true to the side lock of hair. He never questioned it. Hapi was the same way (though Hapi does not look as mortal). Then, there’s Carter, outlined in gold, nothing else (for now, at least). Mother’s array of colors permeate the apartment, and Nephthys’ own faint magic waits subserviently beneath it.

Well, the control works.

The headache is something else. All for his son, he reminds. The boy deserves his mother.

Horus expands his vision to the winding caverns of the Duat. It pulses in his eye, bordering on painful, and...he cannot find Hathor. He continues to search her out for an hour, but her trail ends at the start of Night, cataracts undisturbed by the barge’s sailing. What could she be doing in the Houses of Night? The sheep? The scarab? Surely, she made it past the trial with no issue.

The Houses of Night.

Horus leaves the frown off his face, stomaching the thought. It was...more than what they had. Twelve houses, but days missing. Did she get caught?

Thoughts for morning. He collects Ihy, shifting the boy to rest on his shoulder. His hand likewise grabs the rest of the blanket he’s wrapped in and squishes the lamb against his back. Ihy squirms at being disturbed, but stills after making eye contact. Horus quietly walks to the guest room; the door creaks.

Peeling the sheets back, he drops Ihy onto the bed. The boy wakes fully enough, curling tightly into a ball. In a moment of vunerability, he succumbs to his childish fears and gestures for Horus to lie with him. “Not tonight, dear boy. Papa still has things to do,” he says, but offers his hand for him to grip.

“Where’s Momma?” he asks quietly.

Horus gently smiles. “We’ll talk.”

It says more than any _talk_ could. Ihy’s tired eyes do not widen with fear, but Horus watches the light drain from them, face hidden behind his lamb.

He waits with Ihy before he falls asleep again.

* * *

Carter Kane’s nap supposedly revitalizes him enough to stay up well into the night, Mother’s television is quiet in the background, framing the outline of Carter’s jawline. “Can I ask you something?” he asks, feet tucked under the god’s calves.

“Shoot.”

Carter won’t look at him, staring intently at his own lap. “It’s a stupid question–“

“Nothing stupid has come out of your mouth, Carter.” Carter’s boyfriend is _suddenly_ a god; surely he has questions, and he’ll indulge him, as much as he can.

His face flushes, further proving Horus’ theory that little praise has come Carter’s way. “Th-thanks,” he says with that adorable smile. “Anyway. I hope I don’t offend you, but if Lady Hathor–“

“That isn’t necessary–“

“–is a goddess of love, wouldn’t it make more sense for her to be with _her_ soulmate, too?”

He shrugs. “Hers hasn’t shown up. It took over five thousand years for _you_ to appear, little mortal. They’re fickle. Us gods live for a long time, but I’m glad you’re here,” finally. He isn’t quite sure of what he feels for Carter besides terrifying affection, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s a new emotion, all consuming, nothing like the slow build he experienced with Hathor and his ex-wife.

The burn on his cheeks deepen. “Shut up,” he says, shrinking away from him.

Grinning, he does the exact opposite, kissing his other cheek. “Talk to me, little mortal. There’s so much of you I don’t know. Ramble to me like you do on the phone.” Carter frowns.

“...sit back,” he asks, “but I’ll let you know that I’m not that interesting.” Horus, naturally, complies, all of twenty-one year old Carter straddling his lap. He spares a hesitant glance towards the guest bedroom; the light is still off, with no chance of Ihy interrupting. “You’ll be bored in a minute,” he mutters, settling down as he grasps his hips. Slim, thrumming with magic, and now he’s noticing the lithe muscles cording his bones. Not much, but he’s not trimmed with baby fat like most today.

Horus rolls his eyes. “I doubt that. Keep in mind: I use to sit in meetings about grain. Even you if you bore me, which I doubt, I have something pretty to stare at.” Carter claimed of burning up after his nap, sweaty, visibly agitated, taking his outermost shirt off, left in only the basic olive undershirt. Between the fit and television light, he’s a delectable treat.

“Shut. Up. This haze of being my soulmate is going to wear off and you’ll realize I’m not that _pretty_. I’m dating a _god_ , you moron.” Carter huffs, rubbing his shoulder. There will be time later to properly teach him the definition of _god_. “Anyway. So…” Carter, bless his fragile soul, does prattle.

Horus does listen with half an ear. Sports. High school. A whole list of self doubts. He tucks his head down on Carter’s shoulder, the mortal pausing in his stories, but he carries on. Carter confirms Horus’ suspicions about being his first “serious” relationship, then briefly and bitterly talks about his sister, but ends the section on _I do love her, more than anything, but she’s infuriating_. Siblings are odd for Horus, so he stays mum.

“You don’t talk very much,” Carter quips, resting his hand on his cheek.

“You’re speaking, dear mortal. Though there are things I want to address, that have less to with you personally and more to do with…you in general?” Horus sighs. “I have this insatiable urge to hide you away, much as I want to take you as a host, but that’d be another bastardization of your inherent divinity.” He pries the mortal’s hand off his cheek, holding it in his lap. Unbearably soft.

_Now_ the mortal laughs. “My inherent divinity? That’s new.”

Horus’ last host was more Greek than Egyptian. The mortal is far from pure, but he’s the closest to Egypt he’s been in a while. “Have I not gone off about Ramses and Narmer buried in you? Narmer is as almost as old as I am. I’m surprised it’s still so alive. Narmer from your father, Ramses from your mother. Perfect for me, and Iskander _seals_ you. He has to know.” But hopefully doesn’t. Danger. That’s living, breathing danger for Carter. And despite his hopes, his talk, Horus cannot kill Iskander. Bound by Ma’at and the knowledge there is no suitable replacement, he’ll live, sympathetic to the Kane children, not calling for their murder. “I could devour you.”

Another laugh, and his heart skips a subjectively important beat. “You’re ancient, old man.”

“Never a day over forty.”

“So you weren’t _completely_ lying about your age.”

Horus shakes his head. “We’re much closer than you think. Will you sit still?” he demands. Carter glances down sheepishly, cheeks flushed. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe Carter’s claims about his relationships in the past. The boy was too good to have only been in one, surely.

He doesn’t really mind.

Carter’s liquid amber eyes slide to the guest room, and his fingers idly play with the god’s shirt. “Is he alright?” he asks.

Cocking his head, “You are concerned about a boy who does not care about you?”

The boy shrugs. “I don’t hold it against him. I’m sure if my dad dated someone when I was five I’d act the same way.” Truthfully, things would probably be worse if Carter was a woman.

“In that case, yes, he will be fine. He’s resilient despite his size.” Horus kisses his cheek. “Get some more rest.”

No break: “Will you sleep with me?”

Horus shoots him a look, shaking his head. No shame in mortals these days. But brazen is a good look on him. “I will lie with you, but I do not sleep,” he says. “If you’re fine with this old man staring at you all night, then fine, we will sleep together.”

Carter must think he’s a comedian.

* * *

Nephthys is not home in the morning, which is odder yet. After setting Ihy up with a bowl of cereal and Carter with his credit card, Horus steps outside of the apartment, dialing Mother while waiting in the stairwell. The stairs are coated with a dusty plastic; he pays too much for this apartment for to be unkempt. He would know if something was wrong with Nephthys. It was his place as king and her guardian. His eyes look over the cheap ground, plastic peeling where it meets the walls. Maybe, if he was more familiar with life, he could offer better descriptors, but he did not know much.

“Where is Nephthys?” he immediately asks as Mother answers. She is awake, but he can imagine her, as they are back in the same timezone. Without the palace, she was rough as the nights dragged on. Dull cheeks stained by wine, skin pale in color, and her hair pulled back into a knot. Mother was beautiful. He says it confidently.

Her voice hits an unfamiliar note of panic. Mother? Unaware of Nephthys? The worse comes to mind. “She isn’t home?”

“No, she is not.” Could she have been kidnapped? He did not have time to find both wife and sister. Nephthys did not go out at night, either. Where was she? Did Seth grab her? Anger spikes his spine at the thought. The outcome is horrible, but Horus welcomes a battle.

There’s a lull in conversation. Mother’s anxiety is palpable over the line. “Oh, that’s right,” she says. “Your aunt is on a tennis trip. The club went somewhere,” she finishes. “No need to be concerned!”

_Tennis_. Something smells off about this story. “When will she be home?” he asks increduously. Mother spins him another tale, and he makes sure to call the woman himself later. Wrong. Everything is wrong. He makes peace with Mother, does not mention Hathor, and turns the phone off.

Nephthys is up to no good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, getting ready in the morning: wow i hate this.  
> driving to class: ok, i don't hate it. there's just a lot i wish i did and a lot i wish i didn't, but i can always go back and revise it  
> me, now: wow i hate this


	27. Chapter 27

**you do not have to be good./you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.**

After Isis is called away, Nephthys rises from bed and dresses quickly. Worry does etch itself into her for Horus’ family, she reminds herself as she slipped into a baggy sweater over a thin camisole (Osiris would have a fit), but she was helping the whole of them. But. Still. What was she doing?

Water. Water would help. She stepped into the bathroom, starting the faucet in the sink. The water coursed out, splashing in the marble basin. Nephthys spares herself a glance in the mirror, and godly radiance made her shine still. Not the greatest, compared to her twin, but mortal men did try for her attention. She forced her hands into the pooling water, something that made her unique from her siblings. Water was a gift, and she did not shy away from it.

Everything for her family, she reminded herself, remembering the feeling of bruises forming on her skin. For her boys, for her twin, it was worth it. She could not love her family if they all died to the snake.

Nephthys brushed her hands through her hair. For them.

She was out the door not half an hour after Isis.

* * *

Anubis is a good son; she decides that as he bars her from his apartment. “You never learn, auntie. The snake is fine. Leave.” The word is tender, and hope strikes at her heart. He has to forgive her one day, doesn’t he? Didn’t she deserve to have a child? One of her own?

She smiles. It feels natural. “I would like to hear it from his mouth.” Why was she still hung up on Seth, too? Set had proven to be violent, but being around him dragged her dangerously back to the edge. Once upon a time, she had genuine attraction to him; things were not always bad.

“Do you want to go back there?” The Duat, her abusive marriage, the old days. Anubis’ voice tries to be firm and turn her away, having seen his cousin do it a thousand times, but she does not bow to any and all men. She crosses her arms across her chest. Isis being away emboldened her. Who was to stop her? Her own internalized horror was ebbing away. As neither of them budged, Anubis broke first. “Fine. Come in.” She follows him in, noting how he calls Set Set, and not Father. She cannot blame him.

Around their dinner table, which is littered with take-out containers, Set does update her on the snake; Anubis sits protectively on the same side as her. He grows restless as talks go on, as Set gesticulates and monologues. She steals concerned glances at him. She may not be his mother (birthed him, yes, but mother?), but she did love him for all the years of lies, both as nephew and son. He is tense, shoulders hiked, and what was the old axiom about Set? Showing anything but passivity around Set was akin to showing it to Sobek: death.

He should know that by now.

Nephthys is skilled at ignoring Set’s flirtations laced with venom. Still the bitch wife, the useless sister save for bed, the drunken conquest which bore no fruit. A mistake. His words outweighed the truth of her other siblings. Didn’t they always? Her twin could sing her praises all she pleased, but what did it matter?

Fingers clasped in her lap, complete with sweat, Nephthys absorbed the information presented to her, always the listener. She would relay it to Isis, who would relay it to Horus with excuses as to how she knows what she does. Her mouth parched at the thought of Horus and the lies she had spoke to him since he woke, but she was not alone in her mistakes. 

She whispers to Anubis, mid-soliloquy, if he’ll get her a glass of water. Her siblings were opposed to water, even in a modern age where it did not carry the risk of death, but she was always safe. Safe to drink water, safe to make grievous mistakes. Protected.

And, as a good son does, he steps into the kitchen, back turned to them. Set’s grin, handsome and stretched across his face, turns a little older, familiar, and Nephthys hates her own reaction, ears burning. “We could try for another,” he says lecherously.

Ignoring the improbability: “Our brothers would not approve.” It’s a simple, easy answer. A woman in their care.

He scoffs. “Have I ever cared what they think?”

“You did, at one point. You idolized Osiris.” They all did.

As he leans forward, she leans back. His pale fingers point to the kitchen, at Anubis, equally pale but with hints of gray, loose black hair falling to his hunched shoulders. Their first, their only. “You were always a little dense, Nephthys.” Not soft, but not rough. The tone takes her back. Five thousand years turned monotonous. Devoid of vulgarities, Set continues: “Join me in bed again.”

She hates herself for not immediately rejecting it. To bed again, like the soft hearted girl she used to be. Used to be? Still is. She couldn’t fool herself. “Why the sudden interest?” Why did a glass of water take so long? Her previously calm hands start to pick at her cuticles, finding a deep fascination with them. Well groomed, at least.

He notices her absence of refusal. “I know you were faithful in some way, wife-”

“-I am no longer your wife-” (clinking of glasses in the kitchen)

“-and I know you haven’t fucked another in all these years.” There it is. “Our brothers would never touch you the way I did-”

“-You’re disgusting,” she interrupts, bile twisting in her stomach. Her brothers. Touching her-she wants to wretch, and the best descriptor for the feeling is seasickness. A hot seasickness, stomach coiling into a tight knot. Nephthys looks at him, and the old passion flares again. She did love him, at some point. At this point. At no point.

Set continues on unperturbed. “Come to my bed. Remember what we use to be, Nephthys. Let’s try again. You’re the quiet type, but I know you have the same needs as the rest of us.” He stands up, chair scraping against the floor. 

Where’s that water? She notices that he’s both the youngest and shortest of the Demon Day boys now, and that almost brings a smile to her face. That would conflict this. “Boy, run to the store. Make yourself scarce.”

Anubis steps into the room protectively. His mouth opens, undoubtedly to protest, but she sends him a smile. “It’s alright,” is she really saying this?, “you can go.” Disappointing all except for Set, Anubis sends hurried glances between the two of them, conflict etched on his face, before leaving with the slam of the door.

Nothing about this meeting is normal. Set rounds the table, and she does not cower. No chill overtakes her, only the warmth spreading over her body. Really, what did the opinions of her siblings matter? She failed both as a sister and a wife; she may as well repair herself as the latter.

He kneels before her, taking her clasped hands out of her lap. “Ma’at would appreciate it.”

“You want the Contendings, and none of us are ready.” She does not fight his hold. “Do you want me for yourself, or for Ma’at?” she asks hoarsely.

His eyes darken. “Myself.”

* * *

Set’s bed is comfortable. She hates the thought, her actions, all of the night. Why did she succumb to her base urges? And with him.

Our brothers would never touch you. Of course they wouldn’t. Both married, and neither of them had ever been the target of her affections. It wasn’t about brothers, it was about Set. It was always about Set. She wasn’t something soft and needed to be treated like a child with him. For all intents, as vile as the thought was, she was a woman with him, more than the baby sister.

She spared a glance outside through the cracked curtains, to the sun she loved so much. Baby sister. Lady of the Temple. Protector of the Dead.

Narrowing her thoughts, she spared a look to the sleeping Set, who retained his age well. He was not always a poor husband; there was benevolence and kindness inside of him, and she was the recipientof it. Gods are unchanging forces, but they have their constants between them. Set was bound to Ma’at like the rest of them. Why should he be punished for her siblings’ inability to remember him as he was: a cocky youth meant for something.

Her thoughts were too disjointed to come to any conclusion. She had broken her millennia of celibacy. No mortal had caught her eye long enough to join them in bed. Always Set.

Everywhere. Nowhere.

The ringing of her phone steals her attention, thrown somewhere amongst her clothes on the ground. She reaches for her discarded pants, digging it out. Isis’ name flashes on the screen. Isis may begrudgingly approve of using Set for information, but for pleasure? Centuries of house arrest, seven decades, if she’s lucky. 

She wraps the thin blanket around herself (decorated with some sports team icon, and red, of course) and steps into the living room. Still no Anubis. “Hello, sister,” she says. 

“Why aren’t you home?” Isis is a queen in all she does, the tone of voice she’s adopted far too gentle for Nephthys’ mistake.

“Are you home?”

“No, but my dearest son and Ihy spent the night there, and you were not home.” Her calm tone becomes even scarier with that piece of information. “Do tell your nephew, your protector, may I remind you, about your tennis trip when you see him again. He grows suspicious.”

A creature of guilt. “I cannot tell him anything. He will-“

“He has every right to be mad with you. Either you tell him yourself, or I will. Imagine which will anger him more.” Nephthys finds interest again in her cuticles, chewing at them. Every right. Bruises on her cheek, nights of crying in her sister’s room and a plethora of apologies and promises. “I’ll pin some blame on myself for allowing you to see him, but it stops now. We know all we need to about the snake.” Her mistakes come rolling back to her.

She squares her shoulders. “It is not your place to tell him anything. It is my mistake, Isis, but he doesn’t need to know. I am alright.” Her voice tightens. Everything is still in the apartment.

Isis hums, and it isn’t friendly. Why does she get to be the perfect sister, mother, wife, while Nephthys is a pit of mistakes open for ridicule? She was growing tired of it. “It is a poor century when you place more faith in Seth than Horus.”

Nephthys clicks the phone off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thanksgiving, if that’s your thing!


	28. Chapter 28

**after some hours the rest of us slept./some of us sleep still left**

“Where would you like to go?” Isis recalls what lands are called today. “Mostly in the Mediterranean,” she finishes.  Mortal whine is cheap and poor. She doesn’t enjoy it, but drinks what is here, spice tickling the back of her throat.

Ruby balks. “Choices paralyze,” she murmurs. She is not the same teenager girl Isis used as a host years ago. Mortals grow old at a rate that, if she were attached to them, would worry her. “You can pick. We aren’t a picky bunch,” she says with a smile. Mortals were a constant source of conflicting feelings.

She returns the smile, no teeth bared. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll try to remember and choose my favorite,” she finishes, wondering what homes were left. Time was now categorized as before and after Horus’ nap, and their homes had set vacant since before his nap. Horus; worry gnaws at her for her son and his jumbled family, but it was for the best that they left. There were too many gods attempting to congregate in the Kane home.

Magic is returning to the way it was suppose to be.

The Kane mother leans back in her seat. It creaks. “I open our home to you, if you would like to stay here,” Ruby offers as well. “It’s been a long night for us Kanes. I think we’re going to get some rest, but you’re welcome to stay and do as you please.” Alone? In a mortal’s home? Scandalous. But the offer is nice; she knows Horus occupies her apartment now and would like to give him his space.

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” she answers. “Feel free to rest.” Isis needed to be conscious of potential Nomes poking around. Iskander was sure to notice the Kane involvement with the Demon Day children. They were quickly becoming entwined.

There’s some commotion outside the kitchen. “Why can’t I go out?” Sadie Kane exclaims over Julius’ platitudes. Ruby sighs, seeming to be familiar with this argument. “Walt’s on his fucking way.” She idly thinks  _ kids these days _ as Ruby apologizes for her behavior and Julius reprimands her language, but there is no time for anything more, Sadie Kane carrying on with considerable spice: “You let Carter leave with a man he’s  _ met _ , what, three times? But  _ gods forbid  _ I see my boyfriend of four years!” Something ruptures in the bathroom.

Isis is intrigued. She refills her glass of wine, taking a deep drink, and refills it again. Ruby shares with her an apologetic smile, rising from the island. Her voice, regal in it’s own fashion, starts, gentler than her husband. “Carter left without asking permission. I’m surprised you  _ did _ ask.”

Her brow furrows.

_ “Your parents know?” he replies. Carter nods. _

__ So his parents didn’t know. That’s concerning; Horus never would have taken the boy if he knew the truth. He has too many concerns on his plate to deal with some rebellious mortal. Isis will say nothing directly. She receives enough scolding for ‘interfering’ with Horus’ marriage; she doubts he’ll be open to her speaking unkindly about that boy of his.

Sadie Kane is a spitfire. “I’m sorry that I tried to be the good child for once. Whatever. I’ll go sneak out of my fucking-”

“Sadie.”

“-my fucking window.” Teenage rebellion in another form; she could appreciate the things that didn’t change. Isis reclined in her seat to peer around the corner, eyes lingering on the youngest Kane. A spitting image of her mother. Hiding her actions behind another sip, she’s reminded of a simpler time, when the Nomes understood their position. “Carter fools around with an older, married man but  _ I’m  _ the problem child.”

Her parents assuage her, or they try. Sadie throws a few more curses around, Ruby mutters something darkly ( _ Is it any surprise she moved out? _ ), and Julius heads upstairs with heavy steps. Ruby is left alone, amongst coats and shoes and glass panels framing the door. She deflates for a moment, and unlike Isis, who would piece herself back together before showing herself to anyone, she returns to the kitchen in the same way, shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she says. She opens the fridge, bathed in golden light, and twists open a glass bottle.

Gossip fueled her time in the palace. “What was that?”

Ruby sighs, hiking herself onto the counter. Some youth is retained in her body. “We never gave either of them a curfew, at first. Carter would come home himself by ten, without having to be told. Only once did he not come home, but his best friend had just gotten his license, and he was having a bad time. We excused him.” She’s drinking that bottle awfully fast. “Sadie, on the other hand, proved that she  _ needed _ a curfew. She’d be out every weekend and wouldn’t tell us a thing. Sadie’s always resented how much freedom we gave Carter. Is he an adult? Sure. But for him to run off with your son without telling us? Never in a thousand years.”

Isis cocks her head. “Just because your children are adults does not mean they stop listening to you. They both seem to be good kids, though.”

She chuckles. The sound is warm, drawing a smile onto Isis’ face. Isis decides, then and there, that Ruby will be one of her hosts. “They are, in their own ways. I wish Carter was a little more daring, and Sadie a little more cautious, but they’re mature. I couldn’t ask for better kids.” Love is evident in her voice.

The goddess pushes her chair back from the island and stands. She tops her glass off once more. “Magic tends to change people.” She took a step towards Ruby. She seemed to be like them in so many ways, but glaringly mortal. Weren’t mortals just gods that died? Her exhaustion was nothing new. “I want you as my host,” she says bluntly. The wine has pooled in between her teeth.

“Thank you,” she says dryly. “We should wait. I’m due in the First Nome. I’m a scribe,” she offers unprompted as Isis’ head cocks.

A frown pulls at her lips. “You’re a Diviner, not some lowly scribe,” Isis supplies.

Ruby chuckles, and says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wish i understood why some shit retains its indent & others don’t

**Author's Note:**

> alright welcome back. this may look familiar. i published this a while ago and deleted it at the beginning of last summer, i think. now, beta'd and fully planned and 66% finished, it's back. same themes, same general concepts.
> 
> feel free to yell at me on twitter @hectorpriamids


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